Meine Ehre Heißt Treue
by PsandQs
Summary: Alternate Universe. January 1944, and World War II is moving towards its climax. Young Intelligence cadet Ruth Evershed is selected for a special mission in France - to become the liaison with a German asset. But is the SS officer she is sent to meet all that he appears to be? Warning: Contains descriptions of the Nazi atrocities that took place in the concentration camps.
1. Chapter 1

**PART I: The Mission**

 _Secret operations are essential in war; upon them the army relies to make its every move._

\- Sun Tzu, The Art of War

 _02 January 1944  
London_

Ruth Evershed looked around her inquisitively. She was sat in a small, bare room with her fellow female trainees, and they'd been left here by the instructor for over thirty minutes now. They had been separated from their male colleagues this morning and brought to this drab, non-descript building with the explanation that they would receive a tour of the place where they would start their careers as spies, and she was somewhat disappointed. The building was down-at-heel and neglected, and she had thus far not seen anything to indicate that this was the hub of the espionage activities, the place where the war could be lost or won.

She _so_ wanted to be a spy, to make a difference in the war, but she had to pay her dues at Bletchley Park first. Now she was twenty-five, with dreams of danger and excitement, and a burning desire to prove her worth to her instructors. She knew that she had excelled at most of the aspects of the training, with the notable exception of the physical stuff. She was not much good at hand-to-hand combat or fire-arms; these were things her considerable intellect could not help her with, and she was aware that some of the other girls snickered at her clumsiness behind her back. But surely there was also a place for people like her, with her language skills, her aptitude with codes and her ability to memorise and later recall large volumes of information.

The door opened and the instructor came back in, followed by an older woman with a sharp nose and sharper eyes. Her gaze swept over the occupants of the room, stopping at each for a few seconds, and Ruth had the feeling that she had been thoroughly weighed and found inadequate.  
"Which one?" the woman asked of the instructor, and to Ruth's alarm he nodded in her direction. Her heart sank; she immediately assumed that the time had come when they would tell her she could not be a spy. The woman seemed surprised somehow, but quickly recovered and turned to the instructor.  
"All right, you can take the rest of them on the tour now. Ruth, is it?" she unexpectedly said, and Ruth started. She nodded miserably. "Would you stay behind?" the woman continued, and Ruth hunched in her seat and kept her head down. She did not want to see the gleeful expressions of the others over her failure.

Nothing more was said until the door had closed. The woman moved over to one of the chairs and settled down, and for the first time Ruth noticed the file in her hand. She opened it and began to leisurely read through it, and the silence dragged on. Ruth wished to God that she would get it over with; sitting there waiting for the sword to fall was excruciating and humiliating. The door opened again and a man entered – tall, blond and rather attractive.  
"Hello," he said, his tone friendly, as the blue eyes looked her over in a frank and calculating manner.  
She mumbled a return greeting and stared at her shoes.

The woman started talking to him as though Ruth wasn't even in the room. "Fluent in French and German, and a number of other languages that is not our immediate concern. Top of the class in codes, and did brilliantly in the memory tests." The sharp eyes lifted from the file and focussed on Ruth once again speculatively. "Pity she's so dowdy."  
Ruth's head jerked up as her cheeks burned with humiliation. She looked between them, taking refuge in anger. "There is no need to be cruel," she said, her voice shaking. "Just let me go and be done with it." She gathered strength as she continued. "But you are making a mistake. I can make an important contribution. Physical ability is not everything."  
The man watched her reaction with interest and she focussed on him. He seemed warmer, more approachable than the woman. He smiled at her, confirming her impression of his character further.  
"She has bottle," he remarked to the woman, "I think she'll be perfect."  
The woman remained dubious, apparently, for she shrugged and said, "It's your operation."  
He took a step closer to her and held out his hand. "My name is Adam Carter, and that's Juliet Shaw." Then he added, "We're not letting you go."

0o0

"What I'm about to tell you must be treated with the utmost secrecy," Juliet began. They had moved to another room, deeper in the bowels of the building, and were gathered around a table on which six files were stacked. The mood had shifted, had become more serious, and Ruth got the feeling that her life was about to change forever. "It is probably our biggest secret, and could mean the difference between victory and defeat."  
Ruth's eyes widened as Adam continued, "We have an agent in the upper echelons of the Nazis' _Schutzstaffel_ , better known as the SS. Have you heard of it?"  
"Yes," she said, "it's the party's security and intelligence organisation, created by Hitler personally." She looked between them, astounded. "Its members are said to be fanatically loyal to the _Führer_ ; how did you manage to get an agent in there?"  
He was impressed by her knowledge of the enemy. "We didn't. He came to us."

Ruth absorbed that. She hesitated – she had no right to question these people; surely they knew what they were doing?  
Adam watched her with a small smile, seemingly knowing what she was thinking. "Ask what you want to ask," he invited, and she took him up on it.  
"Are you sure it's not a plant? That the Germans are using this agent to feed us false information?"  
He grinned and looked at Juliet, ever more convinced that she was the right woman for the job. "That's what we thought at first." He picked up the first file. "But, he has been delivering first grade intelligence since 1940; intelligence confirmed by other trusted sources. I think he's for real," he concluded and handed her the file. "However, I would like you to make up your own mind about it. This file contains all his reports, and our corroborating evidence."  
She nodded, confident in her own analytical ability, but he wasn't finished.  
"Because you need to be convinced of the value of this man to do what I'm about to ask of you."  
Something in his voice made her apprehensive. "What would that be?"  
"To go to Paris and be the contact between us and him. By pretending to be his lover."

She must have misheard. "I'm sorry?"  
Adam's eyes twinkled at her. "We want you to go to Paris and pretend to be our asset's French mistress, and handle communications between him and Head Office here."  
Ruth was dumbstruck. "But…" she began feebly. Should she tell them that she wasn't all that experienced in the physical aspects of love? That she had no real idea how one went about seducing a man? On the other hand, would raising any objections scupper this chance for her to make a real contribution?  
Juliet spoke again, and this time her voice wasn't quite so harsh. "You only have to pretend, Ruth. There need not be any real sex involved, if that's what you're worried about."  
"No… Erm, I was wondering why this is necessary now, that's all," she hedged. "He seems to have communicated with you just fine by other means?"  
"True," Adam responded. "He's been in Berlin until last month, and used a number of different dead-drops to send his reports. However, he has now been transferred to Paris, and we can no longer use the dead-drop system. It also takes too long to get the reports to London. The war is moving towards its pivotal point, and we need a way to get his reports here as quickly as possible. We decided to make use of a radio. He cannot keep the set with him – much too risky. So he suggested this solution – apparently all the German officers stationed in Paris are indulging in the local fare; he thinks it will be the perfect cover."

There was a long silence as Ruth mulled things over. She knew all too well what he meant by the pivotal point of the war – the Allies' planned invasion of France. She knew it could not be far off, and having a man in Paris with access to the Germans' plans would be invaluable.  
"Who is your agent?" she asked curiously; she at least needed to know who she was supposed to have this affair with before she agreed.  
Adam and Juliet shared a glance, and then Adam said to her great surprise, "…We don't know."

0o0

She was alone in the room now, just her and the files. The whole business was simply incredible, and she needed time to sort it out in her mind. She stared at them, trying to figure out where to start to try and make sense of it all. Six files. One thick file containing the reports and corroborating evidence of Agent Teuton. And five discouragingly thin files of high ranking SS officers. The five possibles that could be their agent. She drew the Teuton file to her and began to read.

The first report was delivered to the embassy in The Hague in February 1940. Or more accurately, a note was delivered to indicate that an intelligence report on the leadership structures of the Nazi Party had been left at a dead drop in Berlin. The report was eventually collected three weeks later and contained high grade information, as well as instructions for additional dead-drops. The agent simply informed them to check these dead-drops on a regular basis, and they would contain further reports at irregular intervals. Despite staking out the dead-drops, no-one ever spotted the agent depositing his material. Ruth read through Teuton's reports carefully. The information ranged from information on the Nazi leadership to battle plans, as well as design information on the V1 and V2 rockets developed by the Germans. There was also information about German U-boats and battleships, and progress reports on the war on the Eastern Front. He had predicted, long before it became evident, that the German army would falter. "We have greatly underestimated the Russian capacity for suffering," the report concluded, "and it will be our downfall." There was also a report, dated July 1941, detailing in stark and horrific facts the Nazis' Final Solution plan against the Jewish population in the areas it occupied.

She sat back, deep in thought. It was an impressive portfolio, and after reading all the reports she shared Adam's evaluation that the agent was genuine. But what else could these reports tell her? She drew a pen and paper to her and began to make a list.  
1\. _Visited The Hague in Feb '40  
2\. Access to highest levels of German political and army structures  
3\. Writes English exceptionally well  
4\. Sometimes uses archaic words – some form of classic education?  
5\. Reports clear and precise – points to high intellect and good analytical mind  
6\. Shows good understanding of global political situation  
7\. Shows good, even brilliant, analysis of flaws in military strategies_  
After a moment she added,  
8\. _Demanded no payment, so what is motivation for betrayal?_

She read through her list a few times, but could not think of anything to add. "Right," she said aloud, "Let's see if this leads me to any of these five."

Adam had earlier handed her the files, stating that these five men were the only confirmed senior SS officers who had recently been transferred to Paris. "We don't have photos, and the biographic information is sketchy at best, I'm afraid," he'd said apologetically.  
"But how will I know which man to approach?" she had asked helplessly, and he had smiled.  
"You don't need to – he will approach you," he explained. "He has instructed that you be employed at a specific café on the _Champs-Elysees_ that is frequented by German officers. You must start during the third week of January, and he will make contact with you there once he is sure that it is safe. He will ask the owner of the café to make his favourite dessert, _bienenstich_ , within your earshot, and you must reply that you have never had it before. Then he'll know you're the contact we sent."

She spread the files on the table in front of her. Wouter Stegen, Helmut Voss, Herman Peters, Hans Prinz and Jurgen Setzer. The names were stencilled on the covers in bold black letters. Not for the first time she wished that she had photos – one could tell so much about a person by looking into their eyes. With a shrug she opened Wouter Stegen's file first. He had the rank of _Sturmbannführer_ and had joined the SS in 1938. He was in the Intelligence section, and had done a stint at the Auschwitz concentration camp. A note stated that he was known to be cruel and fanatical. She shuddered, for the first time realising the full implications should she accept this assignment - she might be required to sleep with a man that repulsed her on every level. Would she be able to do that? And what would the repercussions be if she failed?

Helmut Voss was one rank higher, an _Obersturmbannführer_. He was trusted by the Head of the SS, Heinrich Himmler, and often used by him for personal errands. As Himmler was responsible for implementing the plan to get rid of the Jews, Voss was also closely involved in the organisation of the concentration camps.

Herman Peters joined the SS in 1937 and had the rank of _Standartenführer_. He was second-in-command to Walter Schellenberg, the SS Head of Foreign Intelligence, and had reportedly been involved in the Venlo incident, where two British Secret Service officers were captured by Schellenberg at Venlo in the Netherlands in November 1939. It was rumoured that he initially won Schellenberg's respect by gunning down two Jewish children that had pick-pocketed the senior officer.

Hans Prinz also joined in 1937 and had the rank of _Obersturmbannführer_. He was close friends with Helmut Voss and had reportedly assisted him with his duties of organising the concentration camps. He was urbane and well-educated, which caused some of his fellow SS officers to resent him.

Jurgen Setzer was a _Hauptsturmführer_ and the most junior of the five men. He was also part of Schellenberg's entourage and known to be quite ambitious.

She closed the last file in frustration. The information was too sparse to give her a clear feel for these men, and she still had no idea which of them was the most likely to be Teuton. All she had learnt was that she liked none of them particularly much – they all seemed thoroughly odious people. But then, Teuton was betraying his own country, his own people, and did that not reflect a flawed character in itself?

The door opened and Adam came back in. He observed her glum face and took a seat opposite her. "Talk to me," he invited, and she managed a glimmer of a smile.  
"I just… They're all so horrible," she confessed, and he looked thoughtful.  
"People who betray their country usually are," he responded. "But let's start from the beginning. Do you think Teuton is for real? Or is it a trick by the Germans?"  
She lifted her eyes to him in surprise – she had not expected him to be interested in her opinion. It felt good. "I think he's for real," she said without hesitation.  
"But?" he asked shrewdly, sensing her reticence.  
She let out a breath. "But… he's smart. Brilliant, even. A strategic thinker, someone who sees the bigger picture. I didn't get the sense that any of these five fit that description."  
"We must be careful not to underestimate the enemy," he responded immediately. "We read about the concentration camps and the atrocities and we think intelligent human beings could not do this." His gaze held her as he continued, "The Nazis identified a problem – the control the Jews had over the financial institutions and the economy – and they devised a strategy to eliminate that problem." He paused, then added more gently, "It is possible to be brilliant _and_ cruel, Ruth. You only have to look at our own history to see that."

On some level she knew he was right, that the one did not necessarily exclude the other. Perhaps the problem was that she _hoped_ it wasn't one of these men, and that this was clouding her judgement. She gave a small nod.  
Adam watched her closely. "And if this man is as smart as you say he is, it is imperative that we send someone equally smart to liaise with him. Someone with the ability to evaluate his reports on the spot, and to alert us if something is wrong – if this is a set-up after all." He smiled. "And I am becoming more convinced by the hour that that person is you. So, will you do it?"

She took a long time before she responded, but when she eventually did her voice was strong and clear.  
"Yes."

 _tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

**PART II: The Legend**

 _Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt._

\- Sun Tzu, The Art of War

 _10 January 1944_

 _Kent_

The car pulled up to a large house and Ruth looked out of the window curiously. It was a lovely old house, even though the garden was somewhat neglected. She had been given a week to get her personal affairs in order, and say goodbye to whomever she needed to say goodbye to. That didn't take too long. There was only her mother and they weren't close – hadn't been so since her father's death when she was still young. Adam had explained that due to the high secrecy of the operation, they would not function out of the Service's offices, but from a private house. A car and driver had been sent to pick her up, and now she was here to start the final leg of her preparations. The week had not been particularly good for her morale. The more she thought about those five possible options, the less she liked it. How was she supposed to pretend to be the lover of a man who would sanction genocide?

Adam bounded down the steps and opened the door for her. "Ruth, welcome. Come and meet everybody," he said and guided her into the house. He led her into a dark-panelled room lined with bookcases and a long table running down the middle of it. The people gathered around it regarded her with frank interest as she came in.  
"Everyone, meet Ruth Evershed," Adam began as he took his seat at the head of the table. "Ruth, this is the team that will be involved in this operation." He pointed to a blonde girl who looked barely old enough to be out of school. "That's Jo, and next to her is Fiona." He grinned at the dark-haired beauty and added, "My wife. The two ugly blokes on that side are Colin and Malcolm, who will provide the technical support."  
There was a chorus of hellos and smiles all around.  
"Good, let us get down to business," Adam said briskly and the mood turned serious. "Jo, Fiona and I will all be stationed in Paris with you. We will each have a radio set and will send the reports on behalf of Ruth on a rotational basis." He looked at Ruth. "It will be too dangerous for you to have a radio. Also, there will be no direct contact between you and any of us, unless extreme measures are needed. There is a busboy at the café who works for us, and he will be the go-between. His name is Zafar Younis, and he's a Punjabi."  
"Isn't that risky?" Ruth queried, concerned. "Will the Germans not target people like him?" She meant non-Western, non-Aryan people, and they all understood.  
"We have found the opposite, actually," Fiona answered. "They treat such people as though they are nothing, so they ignore them. It's as though they are not worth their attention."  
"Yeah," Adam took over, "Zaf's been there since the Germans took Paris, and he has been invaluable to the Resistance and to us."  
Ruth nodded. "So… all I have to do is get Teuton's reports from him, code it and give it to Zaf?"  
"No. I also want you to evaluate them and give me your impression on the accuracy of the report." He had become very solemn. "We cannot afford to be wrong about this. You need to get to know this man, and warn us if he is a double agent for the Germans. It will be dangerous, if he is as smart as you think, so be careful."  
She swallowed; that was quite a load for a young woman to carry – especially one with no experience. But she wanted to be a spy, to make a difference, and she now had a chance to do just that.

"The café is called the _C'est la Vie_. The owner, Francois Edouard, is a member of the Resistance, and you will pose as his niece from the countryside, Rosalie." He slid a file across the table to her. "He really does have a niece named Rosalie that is about your age, and that is her background. Study it, make it your own until you can be woken in the middle of the night and tell your life-story without thinking twice. In this line of work, a hesitation can mean your death."  
"I'll help you practice it," Jo offered, and she smiled at the young woman gratefully.  
Adam continued. "You'll have a small apartment within walking distance of the café. Teuton insisted on that – presumably it'll be easier for him to meet you there than at his lodgings, which he'll probably be sharing with his fellow SS officers."  
Ruth did her best to take all of this in, and thought of something. "Do I speak German to him?"  
"Good question," Adam said warmly. "In public, stick to French. You might actually pick up some information of your own if you don't let the German officers know that you can understand them. However, when you are alone with Teuton I would advise that you speak German. It'll put him at ease and help you to win his confidence." He looked round the table. "Anything else?" No-one spoke.  
"Good. The rest of the week Malcolm and Colin will instruct you in the tricks of the trade. You'll need to be able to hide the reports should the Germans get curious and search your apartment. Also, use the time to get into your cover. I cannot stress the importance of that enough."

0o0

 _17 January 1944_

Malcolm and Ruth were gathered around a modest fire in the library. She had found an unexpected kinship with the technical man; they got along well and she was glad to spend her last evening in England in his company. He puffed on a pipe and she cradled a teacup between both hands, grateful for its warmth in the chilly January night. She wondered bleakly whether she would be able to find proper tea in Paris. Probably not, and the thought depressed her far more than it should. She knew why.  
"I'm really scared," she admitted into the comfortable silence, and felt a weight lift from her shoulders now that she had said the forbidden words out loud.  
A lopsided smile curved his mouth. "I would be concerned if you weren't," he responded, unperturbed, and she let out a long breath.  
"What if I can't do it, Malcolm? What if I'm unable to control my repulsion for the man and ruin everything?"  
He contemplated her with a kindly look. "Somehow I don't think you will," he said. "There's a determination to you that I have only seen in the best of field officers. I think you'll be just fine. Perhaps if you try to focus on the one good aspect of Teuton – that he's helping us to win the war?" he suggested.  
It was a helpful idea and she smiled at him, but still the doubt gnawed away at her. "Could you do it?" she asked curiously. "Could you sleep with a woman that you knew committed atrocities?"  
Malcolm drew on his pipe and the aroma of the tobacco filled the room, reminding her suddenly of her father. "…Probably not." He risked an admission of his own. "I'm not a brave man, Ruth. I could never do what Adam, Jo and the rest are doing, so no, I don't think I could."  
"There is more than one kind of bravery," she said, and he smiled at her kindness. "But I feel like I'm about to sell my soul."  
He sighed and his gaze went to the fire, and she got the impression he was looking far into the past. "A friend once told me that you cannot do what is good in war," he began. "You can only do what's necessary and live with the consequences afterwards." He looked at her and added, "And he also said that there is nothing wrong with selling your soul on behalf of your country."

It was Ruth's turn to stare into the flames and consider the wisdom proffered by her companion. There was a cold logic to the words and it somehow made her feel a little better, a little more determined. "Your friend sounds like a smart man," she answered with a small smile. "I'd like to meet him one day."  
A shadow crossed Malcolm's face and she sobered instantly. Without him saying a word she knew that the friend was dead – they were in the middle of a war, after all.  
"I'm sorry," she apologised, "I didn't mean to pry."  
He waved her concerns away. "It's fine. It's nice to recall him to someone. He was… remarkable," he finally settled on.  
Her curiosity was piqued. "What was his name?"  
"Harry. Harry Pearce," he responded, and suddenly he couldn't seem to stop talking. "He started out as a colleague, actually, in the Service. He was the best field officer we had between the wars, and he rose swiftly through the ranks. Harry insisted on having me as technical back-up on all his operations, and he made sure I went with him to whichever Section he was posted to." Malcolm smiled in reminiscence. "And somewhere along the line we became friends."  
"What happened?" Ruth asked softly, unexpectedly moved.  
"Harry was a keen sailor. He went on a solo trip down the coast of Portugal. There was a storm, and…" He faltered, then recovered himself. "They found the boat drifting two days later. There was blood on the boom, and no trace of Harry. The wind must have jerked the mainsail over and the boom caught him against the head. He went overboard and drowned."  
There was nothing to say to that, so she left him to his memories.  
"We could have done with him during the war," he continued. "The funny thing is, he was one of the very few who saw it coming. Whilst the politicians and the top brass of the Service chose to believe the lies Hitler was selling us, Harry proclaimed to all who would listen that war was coming and that we had to prepare, had to get assets in place. And then he goes and dies three years before his prediction became true." His voice faded away and the last few words were uttered into the flames.  
Ruth watched him quietly, touched that he still spoke so fondly of a friend that had died in 1936, and finding herself wishing that she could have met this man named Harry that had made such a deep impression on those close to him.  
And then Malcolm surprised her by adding, "I think he would have liked you. He would certainly have approved of what you are about to do."

0o0

 _18 January 1944, 23:42  
Off the Belgium coast_

The small boat rocked violently and Ruth began to feel queasy. The sea was rough; it wasn't really an ideal night for a small boat to be out on the open water, but they counted on that. It was cloudy and pitch-black; not a glimmer of stars or moon to light the way. They had been waiting here for almost half an hour now; waiting, Adam had whispered in her ear, for the sign from the reception committee that it was safe to come into shore. Another large wave rolled underneath them and the boat tilted crazily into the sky, and she worried that she was going to disgrace herself by being the first to throw up. She strained her eyes towards the shore, trying in vain to penetrate the darkness, praying for the damn signal. And seconds later, to her great relief, it came. Three faint flashes of light towards their right, and immediately the boat's engine rumbled and they steered towards it.

They had been briefed beforehand that the boat would not be able to go right up to the shore, and they would have to row the last few hundred metres. Adam soon came round, tapping them on the shoulder, and they followed him to the stern. It was too dark even to see the small dinghy they were towing, but Adam and a young sailor leant over the rail and hauled on the rope trailing behind the boat. The engine cut out again, and all she could hear was the whistling of the wind and the waves crashing onto the shore somewhere in front of them. There was a grinding sound, and Adam waved her towards the dinghy now held in place next to the boat. She got in and took up the place Adam pointed out to her, aware that Jo and Fiona were following suit. For a crazy moment she wondered how on earth Adam thought that he and three women could row the thing effectively, but as soon as the dinghy was loosened from the boat the tide began to tug it into shore.  
"Keep your oars out of the water," Adam instructed in a low voice and she leaned on hers to try and keep it in the air. It was heavier than she'd expected, and she felt the strain in her shoulders immediately. Adam used his to steer them as best he could, but then a wave suddenly tipped them violently and her oar stuck into the water. The dinghy lurched dangerously and she feared that they would roll over before Adam appeared next to her and helped her drag the oar back up. Close up she could hear his harsh breathing, could discern the strain on his face, but still he smiled at her encouragingly and said, "Almost there." Her admiration for him increased tenfold, and she doubled her efforts to keep the oar out of the water. Just when she thought she couldn't hang on any longer, the keel of the dinghy struck something solid and she was thrown forward.

0o0

 _19 January 1944  
00:25_

They were huddled behind some rocks, which helped to shield them from the wind. Her lower legs and feet were freezing – they'd had to slog through the water for the last few metres. There were shadowy figures swarming around them, all members of the Resistance from what Ruth could gather from the snatches of conversation she overheard. Soon Adam appeared at her side, followed by Fiona and Jo and a man she'd never seen before.  
"This is Pierre. He is from Rosalie's home town and will escort you the rest of the way to Paris," he announced without preamble, and she looked at him in alarm.  
"Aren't we going together?" she asked, aware of the waver in her voice.  
He smiled reassuringly. "It's too dangerous. We split up here and each make our way there via a different route. You and Pierre will take the most direct one – you need to be there within three days. The rest of us can take longer."  
He could read her fear and squeezed her hand. "Don't worry, Rosalie," he said, subtly reminding her that from now on she was no longer Ruth Evershed, "your papers are impeccable. And Pierre has brought a letter from your uncle Francois requesting your help in his café. You should get through without any problems. Use the time to learn as much as you can about your home village." He hesitated, before adding very quietly, "Good luck."

The next moment he was gone. They were all gone, all these people she'd come to know and trust during the last week. She felt very alone, and very afraid, and had to swallow hard against the panic that threatened to take over. What had she done? How could she have accepted this assignment? She was not meant to be here, out in the field on a mission of vital importance. She was meant to be behind a desk somewhere, analysing information. _That_ was what she was good at. But suddenly Malcolm's voice came into her head, quoting his dead friend: _In war you did what was necessary and lived with the consequences afterwards_. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, and when she looked up her escort was watching her with a cheerful smile. He was tall and gangly and of indeterminate age, with a shock of black hair that fell over his forehead.  
" _Alors_ ," he said, "we go eh?"  
And after only the slightest of hesitation she responded, " _Oui_. We go."

 _tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

**PART III: First Impressions**

 _In war, the key to victory is the ability to surprise one's opponent._

\- Paulo Coelho, Warrior of the Light

 _20 January 1944  
Dunkerque_

In the end they simply took the train. Pierre had led her across the border into France only a few miles from where they had landed, where they had picked up two bicycles at a pre-arranged spot. They had cycled to the nearest train station, by which time it was late morning, and joined the throngs waiting for the train. He explained that transport had become increasingly difficult as the war dragged on, with the Germans commandeering most of the vehicles and petrol for their own use. That left the French population with the trains as the only option to move about the country. German soldiers checked the papers of the passengers before allowing them onto the train, and Ruth felt fear gnawing at her insides as they waited in line for their turn, slowly shuffling forward.  
"You better get used to this," Pierre said laconically, and when she looked at him questioningly he added, "Queueing. In Paris you queue for everything. Supplies are short."  
When they reached the front he handed over their papers without a word, and she noticed the letter from her 'uncle' in between as well. The soldier flicked through it until he reached the letter, and then he suddenly straightened and gave them an appraising look before waving them through. Once they were seated in a crowded compartment she asked to see the letter, and Pierre handed it over without arguing. She scanned through it, curious about the soldier's reaction, and found nothing out of the ordinary. Until she came to the end. There, at the bottom, was an SS stamp with the initials 'H.P.' scrawled over it, and a shiver ran down her spine.

0o0

 _21 January 1944  
Paris_

Ruth tried to take in everything around her as Pierre led her from the station to the _Champs- Elysees_. She saw large numbers of German soldiers, more so than in the countryside, and queues in front of many of the shops. People seemed to go about their business without much interference from the Germans, but she noticed that very few of the locals made direct eye contact with any of the soldiers. The French seemed to have adopted the approach of non-acknowledgement of the occupying forces as much as possible. As they passed a narrow alley she glanced down it and saw a man furtively showing another some potatoes. A bundle of notes changed hands. She looked to Pierre, who shrugged like only the French could.  
"There's a black market for everything – food, clothes, cigarettes. Even the German soldiers make use of it sometimes."  
She frowned. "Don't they simply take what they want?"  
"No. At least, not the ordinary soldiers. They seem to be trying not to antagonise the natives too much." He paused and dropped his voice. "The SS is another matter. Be careful of them," he warned as they approached the _C'est la Vie_.

The café was situated on the ground floor of a three storey building, and Pierre pointed at one of the upper floors. "You'll live in a small apartment on the top floor. It's not much," he said apologetically, "but at least you'll have your own private bathroom. Many of the buildings don't have that."  
The café had a few tables out on the pavement, but as it was a cold and grey day they were unoccupied. Pierre pushed open the door for her, and as soon as she stepped inside she was overwhelmed by the aroma of freshly baked bread and a welcoming warmth. There were quite a few customers and Ruth stopped, surveying her new workplace.  
"Francois!" Pierre bellowed over her head, "Rosalie is here!"

An older man appeared from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a cloth. He was in his fifties, balding and of generous proportions. He swooped down on them, a big smile on his face and his arms spread wide. She couldn't help but smile back, instinctively liking this seemingly warm and generous man.  
"My little Rosa!" he exclaimed and engulfed her in a crushing hug.  
"Hello Uncle Francois," she responded, her voice muffled against his chest.  
He pulled back and held her at arms' length. "Let me look at you," he exclaimed, and there was a shrewdness in the gaze that travelled over her. But then he would have to be to survive the balancing act he'd been doing between his role in the Resistance and the proprietor of an establishment frequented by SS officers.  
"Welcome, little Rosa," he said warmly, and she laughed.  
"Not so little any more," she protested, falling easily into the conversation, her French pronunciation impeccable.  
"Ah pfft," he scolded, "let an old man have his memories." He turned to the rest of the café and raised his voice. "Everyone! My brother's daughter has arrived from the country to help her old uncle. Say hello to Rosalie."  
There was a chorus of hearty hellos and welcomes, and she waved at them shyly.  
Francois brightened even further and announced expansively, "A glass of wine for every customer to celebrate! On the house."  
This suggestion met with raucous approval, and Francois shepherded her into the kitchen as the barman began pouring the wine.

As soon as the kitchen door closed behind them Francois' smile dropped and he became all business. "Any problems?" he asked Pierre, who shook his head.  
"That letter took care of matters," he reported, and Francois smiled grimly.  
"Yes. Dancing with the devil can have its advantages," he said as his gaze returned to Ruth. "Your French is faultless; they chose well."  
Ruth glowed with the unexpected praise. "Thank you," she murmured, grateful for the warm reception. If she were to pull this assignment off, she would need all the help and support she could get. And it seemed that she could count on Francois and Pierre to provide that support. She became aware of a young man hovering at her shoulder and turned towards him. His dark complexion immediately identified him as the Punjabi Adam had mentioned, and she smiled uncertainly at him.  
Francois beckoned him closer. "Rosa, this is Zaf. He will be the contact between you and your people. If you need anything done stealthily, Zaf is your man," the Frenchman proclaimed, and the young man grinned. He had a cheeky smile that made his eyes twinkle, and Ruth immediately warmed to him.  
"Hello Zaf," she greeted and held out her hand, and he shook it enthusiastically.  
"Like Francois said, if you need anything done you let me know. I can move through this city like a ghost – the Germans refuse to pay attention to my kind," he said cheerfully, and she was amazed at his lack of rancour.  
Francois took over again. "You are among friends here," he explained. "Everyone who works for me is part of the Resistance and can be trusted. Whilst your mission is none of our concern, we are at your disposal to provide any help you might need."  
Ruth nodded thankfully. She might as well get started right away, so she asked," How often do you get SS officers in here?"

Silence fell over the group and the three men shared cautious glances. There was a tension in the air that had not been there before as Francois answered. "There's one or more in here almost every day. Their patronage is what keeps the place going." He looked around at the well-stocked shelves. "They make sure I get what I need to make their favourite dishes, and I need that assistance in order to finance the Resistance."  
She immediately understood what he was driving at and hurried to allay his fears. "I'm not here to ruin that," she assured him, evaluating how much she could divulge to them. She would have to trust someone or she would go mad, so it might as well be these men. In the end she settled for a slightly distorted version of the truth. "But I need to get close to one of those officers… To seduce him," she ended in some embarrassment, half expecting them to laugh at her.  
But Francois merely smiled in relief. "Ah well, you should have no trouble with that. Most of the officers have taken numerous French mistresses, and they are constantly on the lookout for new prey." Then he sobered, and added, "A word of warning, though. The locals do not like women who sleep with the enemy. You will be despised for it."  
With that warning ringing in her ears, Pierre took her back into the street and to the entrance to the apartments a few doors down.

Neither of them noticed the SS officer leaning against a tree across the street, seemingly enjoying the view as he smoked a leisurely cigarette. He watched them leave the café and enter the lobby to the apartments before he took a last drag from the cigarette and flicked the butt into the street. Then he turned away and sauntered down the pavement, deep in thought.

0o0

 _24 January 1944  
Paris_

Ruth critically eyed her reflection in the mirror as she finished dressing for the day. The wardrobe they had provided for Rosalie was a lot more suggestive than she would normally wear – it accentuated her curves and showed some cleavage, and she wondered whether Juliet Shaw would still think her dowdy if she could see her now. The male patrons did not seem to think so; she was aware of the admiring looks following her around the café. She had watched carefully how the other waitress, a pretty redhead called Marie, dealt with the amorous customers and followed suit. The trick seemed to be to never let them see that you were uncomfortable with the attention, and to always remain cheerful even if they slapped your behind or tried to cop a feel. It didn't come naturally to Ruth and she had to work hard at it. She carefully pinned up her hair and took a final look – she looked particularly good that day.

As she took the stairs down, she wondered whether today would be the day that Teuton made contact. There had been nothing so far; none of the SS officers that had been in the café to date had been on the list of possibles and she was getting anxious. What if Teuton had been moved somewhere else? What if all the effort had been in vain? Pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders, she made a determined effort to dispel the negative thoughts. At least she'd received word through Zaf that Adam, Fiona and Jo had made it safely to Paris as well. It was a comforting thought to know that somewhere in this big city, hid among the thousands of people struggling to make it through the war alive, were her colleagues. It made her feel less alone, less vulnerable. Still, the waiting, the uncertainty, was grating on her nerves.

She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she did not take proper notice of her surroundings, and walked smack into the broad back of a man about to open the door to the café.  
"Oh! _Pardon_ ," she apologised immediately as he turned around with an irritated expression.  
The first thing she noticed was the single oak leaf insignia on the lapels of his uniform and her heart sank. She had just bumped into a senior SS officer, a _Standartenführer_. And he did not look amused. The eyes that met hers were cold, dark and unforgiving, and she waited apprehensively to see what form the expression of his wrath would take. His hand began to lift and she feared he would strike her. But she was unexpectedly saved by his companion, an _Obersturmbannführer_ , who smiled at her kindly and said in heavily accented French, "No harm done, _mademoiselle_."  
He held open the door for her and she hurried through with a grateful ' _merci_ '.

She didn't stop until she was safely in the kitchen. Francois, noting her pale face, came over immediately.  
"What happened?" he asked as she shrugged off her coat.  
"I accidentally walked into a senior SS officer at the door, and I thought he was going to strike me, but his junior officer interfered and saved me."  
Francois moved towards the door and glanced through the little window. "Ah. Our five friends are back," he commented, and she joined him to see that five SS officers had commandeered the best table in the house.  
"They've been regular visitors for the last month," he informed her, and her scalp prickled. These had to be the five men whose files she'd read back in London. Which meant that one of them had to be Teuton. But which one?

"What do you know about them, Francois?" she asked, hoping to glean a bit more information than the meagre facts that had been in the files.  
Francois tipped his head to the left. "The first one on the left is _Hauptsturmführer_ Jurgen Setzer." Ruth studied the dark haired man with the pale eyes as he spoke. "He's the most junior of the lot and doesn't say much. A sullen bastard who follows the others around, hoping to benefit from their scraps. He's a conniving little man, just waiting for the opportunity to stab one of them in the back and take his place. I get the impression he has his eye on _Standartenführer_ Herman Peters' position."  
Ruth's gaze shifted to the man she had walked into. So that was Herman Peters. Fortyish, beginning to lose his hair, and sturdily built, he leant back in his chair, smoking, watching the activity around him with insolent arrogance. "Why?" she queried, and Francois smiled grimly.  
"Peters is the most senior SS officer currently stationed in Paris, so everything goes through him. You want anything done, he's your man. A word from him could make or break you." He paused before adding quietly, "Or mean your death."  
Ruth shivered, mindful of the cold eyes she had looked into earlier, and of the information in the file she had read in London. This was the man who had shot two kids. "What's he like?" she asked apprehensively.  
Francois shrugged. "Hard to say. Keeps to himself, but doesn't tolerate dissent. I've heard he deals harshly with any German soldier who steps out of line here in Paris."  
She watched the interaction between the five men with interest, noting how the others deferred to Peters. "They're afraid of him," she observed, perturbed. How terrible a man did he have to be for men like the other four to fear him? A thought occurred to her. "'H.P.'" she said out loud, and Francois looked at her questioningly. "Was he the one that signed that letter you wrote for me?"  
He nodded, and her heart sank. She'd had some notion, not yet fully formed, that it could have been Teuton who'd signed the letter, to ensure his contact got through safely. But that would mean that it was this man, Herman Peters, a man who'd shot two children, and who was feared by his fellow officers. Suddenly she very much did not want it to be him.  
And then Francois continued, "But he only did so because Hans Prinz asked him to."

Ruth could not hide her relief. "Really. Which one is Prinz?"  
"The _Obersturmführer_ on Peters' right," Francois said, and she saw it was the man who had come to her rescue earlier. Could it be…? Blond-haired and with gentle brown eyes, he laughed at something one of the other officers had said, and she thought to herself that he wasn't bad-looking. The file had said that he was well educated, so that would fit. But it also said, she reminded herself sternly, that he had assisted with the organisation of the concentration camps. She would do well to remember that part.  
"Prinz has helped me out a lot – he makes sure I get what I need to keep the café running. And he's been willing to assist when we wanted to move family members around the country. Like with your letter."  
Ruth nodded thoughtfully. She was becoming more convinced by the minute that she had identified Teuton.  
"And the other two?" she asked, and Francois grimaced.  
"Helmut Voss and Wouter Stegen," he identified, pointing to each man in turn. "Nasty pieces of work. They are heading up the effort to round up the remaining Jews here in Paris and ship them off to the camps. They like to slap the women around a bit before they put them on the trains, and it's rumoured they've accumulated a lot of wealth by stealing the valuables of the Jewish prisoners. Of course," he added as an afterthought, "they must be doing it on the orders of Peters – it is said that no SS business occurs here in Paris without his say-so."

For the next two hours she went about her duties, listening in on the conversation of the five men as she served them. They talked freely among themselves in German, but she learnt little of interest. Once she turned to find Hans Prinz's gaze on her, and there was frank interest in the brown eyes. The others paid very little attention to her. Peters smoked non-stop and said almost nothing, but when he did speak to her his voice was curt and he did not look directly at her. Her dislike of him grew by the minute.

She removed their empty plates and as she walked away she heard Hans Prinz say, "I like the look of her. I'm going to take her as a mistress," and her heart-rate sped up. So it _was_ him.  
But then another voice cut in. "No," it said in a tone that did not brook any opposition, "she is mine," and fear squeezed her heart. It was the voice of Herman Peters. He was going to ruin their whole plan. When she looked back at the table her eyes met those of Hans Prinz, and she saw him shrug in resignation. But there was a spark of mutiny in those eyes, and she wondered what he would do now.

Peters came over to pay the bill and she hovered close by the door as Francois stepped behind the till, in case Prinz wanted to communicate with her in some way as he left. However, to her great shock and alarm, she heard Herman Peters say, "Francois, I want to have my favourite dessert tomorrow. You must make the _bienenstich_ – I will see that the necessary ingredients get delivered during the day."

 _tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

**PART IV: Baptism by Fire**

 _Foreknowledge cannot be gotten from ghosts and spirits, cannot be had by analogy, cannot be found out by calculation. It must be obtained from people, people who know the conditions of the enemy._

\- Sun Tzu, The Art of War

 _24 January 1944  
Paris_

Ruth was so shocked that she almost forgot to utter her part of the code, to confirm to Teuton that she was, in fact, his contact. She stared at him, at his forbidding expression as he counted out the money, and prayed that this was somehow a mistake. It could not be this man, the worst of the worst according to all reports, who wrote those insightful reports. Who she was to pretend to have an affair with. How was she going to do this? She could scarcely bear to look at him.  
Francois' voice brought her back to her surroundings. "Of course, _Standartenführer_ ," he murmured respectfully, "the _bienenstich_ will be ready tomorrow afternoon."  
The mention of the dessert dragged her back and she forced the words she was supposed to say through unwilling lips. "I've never had _bienenstich_ before."  
Hard brown eyes lifted to her and contemplated her for a few spine-chilling seconds. She saw nothing in them to give her any hope, and when he eventually spoke his words did nothing to do so either. Addressing Francois rather than her, he said without emotion, "I have no intention of sharing the dessert with a servant."  
She felt her cheeks burn as Francois said hastily, "Of course not. I'm sure Rosa didn't mean…"  
The brown eyes lifted to her again, and there was contempt in them. Or was it a challenge? Either way it angered her and she said stiffly, "No. It was a general observation, nothing more." After a beat she added wilfully, "I know my place."  
Francois paled at her impertinence but the _Standartenführer_ showed no reaction. He watched her for a few seconds more, before he fished his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. Then he simply turned and walked out the door.

0o0

 _Late evening_

Ruth ascended the steps to her apartment slowly – it had been a long day and she was tired. Of course the events of the morning had a lot to do with that – she could not stop thinking about it. Could _Standartenführer_ Herman Peters really be Teuton? Or was there some horrible misunderstanding, a freakish coincidence in him requesting the _bienenstich_? Surely it was many Germans' favourite dessert. All available facts still pointed to Hans Prinz being the agent, or was that merely wishful thinking on her part? She was confused and scared, and she did not know what to do. If only she could speak to Adam…

She unlocked her door and closed it behind her again with relief. But that soon changed to fear when she caught the whiff of cigarette smoke in the air. Someone had smoked in her apartment, and she hoped to God that they had left. What would she do if they were still here? Her left hand felt for the umbrella propped in the corner next to the door, and just as her fist closed around it the table lamp in her tiny sitting room went on. It illuminated half of the face of the man sitting casually on her sofa, and fear turned to sheer terror.  
"No need to arm yourself with that umbrella," Herman Peters said mockingly in good French, and she noticed several things at once. She noticed the lit cigarette in the ashtray, its smoke curling lazily towards the ceiling; she noticed how the lamp gave his very short hair a golden hue and turned the one visible eye the colour of amber, but most of all she noticed her papers scattered over the seat next to him.  
Ruth swallowed. What if he was not Teuton and was here to check up on her? Would those papers withstand his expert scrutiny? She cast about for an opening, wondering what a French woman would do in this situation. Hoping to catch him off-guard, she switched to German and nodded towards the cigarette. "Would you mind not smoking in my apartment?"  
He showed no reaction to her use of his native tongue, and fear curled around her heart once more. She had never met anyone so… _contained_ , in her life. She could not read him at all.  
He picked up the cigarette and said, "Actually I would," and took a drag. He exhaled a long stream of smoke and watched her through it. Like a cat would watch a mouse it was playing with. "Sit," he ordered, and for the first time she noticed the wooden chair positioned in the middle of the floor.  
She sat.

The silence dragged on, and he did not seem bothered by it in the least. He smoked leisurely, watching her all the time, and she had to fight the impulse to squirm. She knew that he was trying to unsettle her and she was determined not to give him the satisfaction. Eventually he stirred and picked up some of her papers. "These are very good," he commented and her heart-rate sped up. Was she about to be arrested? Shipped off to one of those awful camps?  
He got up and walked behind her, leaving her to stare at the empty space where he'd been. He moved quietly, and she couldn't place where he was until he spoke close to her left ear, making her jump. "What is your name?" he murmured, his voice a deceiving caress, and she shuddered.  
"Rosalie," she managed, hoarse with fear, "Rosalie Edouard."  
His face was still close to her, and she could smell him – smoke, and soap, and a hint of something else. Cognac, perhaps. He straightened. "No, I don't think so," he said, walking back to her front to face her. "What is your real name?" he demanded, and this time there was steel in his tone.  
With courage she did not know that she had, she stubbornly stuck to her story. "It _is_ my real name. Uncle Francois asked me to come and help out in the café-" she began, but he waved an impatient hand.  
"Stop," he commanded, and she fell silent, watching him warily.  
"You're lying," he said, and wandered back to the sofa. The silence stretched on, and her nerves along with it. Her every sense was sharpened and she focussed on him absolutely, looking for any clue as to what was going on. He settled in the corner of the sofa once again, as though they were merely having a friendly chat.

"Where are you from?" he inquired.  
"From _le Chambon-sur-Lignon_ ," she said immediately. "It's a small village near the Swiss border-"  
"I know it," he cut her off, watching her fingers fiddle nervously with her skirt.  
She forced her hands to still and tried for a diversion. "Can I get you something to drink, _Standartenführer_?" she asked, hoping to get away from those hypnotic eyes which seemed to miss nothing.  
He ignored her offer. "What type of tree is planted in the main square?" he probed, and she licked her lips nervously.  
Her eye fell to the insignia on his lapels. "Oak trees," she answered, hoping that Pierre had got it right during the discussion they had on the village where Rosalie was from. She took a risk and continued wistfully, "Old Leon, who runs the bakery – which is situated on the square as you know – likes to sit outside the shop in the shade of those great oaks during the heat of the day, when it is too warm to run his ovens in the back. The smell of his fresh bread is one of my favourite memories. I used to pass there every morning on my way to school, and he'd slip me a freshly baked _croissant_ , wink and say 'Don't tell your father'." She smiled, a wobbly smile, suddenly home-sick for a place she had never even seen. When she looked back at him he was watching her speculatively, but some of the tension seemed to have gone out of his posture.  
He nodded. "Very good. But tell me, will you be able to keep it up under torture?"

She stared at him, aghast, but before she could formulate a response he continued, "Because both our lives may very well depend upon it."  
She was still trying to compute the implications of that statement when he removed a small package from inside his jacket. He laid it on the sofa next to him, on top of her papers. "My next report," he said without any fuss, and she could not hide her shock.  
Herman Peters _was_ Teuton.  
She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. _He had shot two children_.  
He must have seen something in her face, because he tilted his head and a frown was momentarily etched between his eyes before it disappeared again. A sardonic smile curled his lips, and he lit another cigarette before he said, "I repulse you."

Her eyes widened at his perceptiveness and she hastily said, "No, of course not."  
His answer was swift; his voice lashing at her like a whip. " _Don't_."  
She paled, and he said nothing for a while, before he continued more calmly, "You and I will be spending a lot of time together. Let us be honest with each other."  
"…It's not my place to judge," she began hesitantly, but he silenced her with an irritated shake of the head.  
"I am helping you to win the war. The least you can do in return is afford me total honesty." He tilted his head again. "Or is that perhaps the root of your problem? That I'm betraying my own people? Would you rather I stay loyal and you lose the war?" The mocking tone was back in his voice and she bristled in response.  
"No," she said without elaborating, hoping he would let it go.  
But he did not. He kept her pinned in his gaze, waiting for an explanation, and she got the distinct impression that he was willing to sit there all night if that was what it took.  
And suddenly she had the urge to needle him, to get some kind of emotion from him. "You shot two children because they pick-pocketed your boss," she accused, looking him straight in the eye. She had lain down a challenge and waited with baited breath for his reaction.

He gave her absolutely nothing.  
"They were Jews," he said flatly, as though that justified everything, and she could not hide her horror.  
"They were _people_!" she exclaimed angrily, unable to keep her emotions in check, then added more calmly, "And they were only children."  
He just looked at her, and she thought she saw a glimmer of sadness in his eyes, but it was gone again so quickly that she couldn't be sure. Eventually he said, "You will have to overcome your revulsion – you have to be seen with me in public. And if we both want to survive, you better look like you adore me." He stood and gazed down on her, his face like marble. "You made two mistakes tonight," he continued and she tried not to shrink away in fear. "A simple girl from a small village could not speak such excellent German. From now on we will converse in French. Always. No exceptions." He waited until she nodded feebly. "Secondly, the majority of French citizens would never dare to question the actions against the Jews. If I had a franc for every denunciation my office receives from the French public, I would be a rich man. So you do not, _ever_ , question me or my actions in public. If you do, my retribution will be swift and painful. Do we understand each other?"  
Her throat was too dry to speak, so she merely nodded again.  
He loomed over her for a few seconds more, then abruptly turned away and made his way to the door.  
She remained on the chair, exhausted by tension, by the intensity of the encounter.  
"Oh," he added, pausing with his hand on the doorknob, "and tell the young Punjabi to be more careful. If one were inclined to follow him, one would know that the Resistance operated from the _Rue de Michele_ and the small hotel near the _Sacre-Coeur_." With that last casual warning he was gone, but the smell of his cigarettes hung in the air long after he had left.

0o0

It was a good ten minutes before she was able to move. She propelled herself onto her feet and grabbed the full ashtray, hurrying through to the kitchen with it. She wanted all traces of him out of her apartment, so she washed the debris down the drain and vigorously scrubbed the ashtray. But still she could smell his smoke. With a muttered curse she strode to the bedroom – she was desperate enough to sacrifice some of her precious perfume to mask the smell she had come to so strongly associate with this vile man. She had taken only two steps into the room when she stopped dead and stared at the view before her. Neatly arranged on her bed was every single item linked to the spy trade that she had brought with her. That Malcolm and Colin had supplied her with. There was the clear nail polish which in reality was invisible ink; the pen with the small needle in the tip and next to it the ring with the sleeping powder to be used with it; the tin containing her blush in which they had hid the film container, and next to that the tiny camera built into the handle of her brush. He had found _everything_.

Her panic and fear arose anew, and any doubts she might have had that he really was Teuton disappeared. He certainly seemed to have the intelligence that she associated with the agent. A thought struck her and she hurried back to the sitting room and picked up the package he had left. He had folded the pages into a square and bound them with string, almost as though he was presenting her with a gift. And in a sense she supposed that was true. She untied it carefully and unfolded the sheets, her curiosity winning out over her repulsion of the man. It was a lengthy report and she settled down on the sofa to read it.  
Headed: _Plot to assassinate Hitler and execute coup d'etat_ , it provided a detailed account of the plot by senior Army officers and members of the _Abwehr_ , to assassinate Hitler and take over the government. It had been developing for a few years, and he provided factual information about meetings and the possible methods of assassination discussed – hand grenade, bomb or revolver. There was also information about the motivation for the plot – that these men felt that Hitler, his SS and the Nazi Party had committed war crimes and wanted to show the world that not all Germans were like that. He also described how the conspirators had approached Heinrich Himmler, the Head of the SS, to take over once Hitler was dead, and though he had not agreed to anything, he also had not ordered the SS' Secret Police arm, the _Gestapo_ , to investigate. The report ended with an evaluation from Teuton himself on the viability of the plot. 'There are men who lead and men who follow,' he wrote, 'and Himmler is a follower. If they continue to pin their hopes on him the plot will fail and they will pay with their lives. As the current Head of the _Abwehr_ , Admiral Wilhelm Canaris is also involved in this plot I expect that the _Abwehr_ will be taken over by the SS once it has failed, and that SS- _Oberführer_ Walter Schellenberg will be appointed to command it."

She put the report down and sat deep in thought, impressed by the high quality of the intelligence. It must have taken years of painstaking information gathering to identify all the role-players involved. As she thought back over the events of the evening, she had to admit a grudging admiration for Herman Peters' abilities. He was clearly an intelligence operator of the highest order. Even though she would never be able to reconcile herself with many of the things he had done, she would follow Malcolm's advice and try to focus on the aspects that she could admire. She would swallow her revulsion and only let the world see that admiration, and hope that it would look enough like adoration to sell the affair to his fellow German officers.

She would do all this, because after tonight she was convinced that this man had the ability, intelligence and _nous_ to provide the information that would mean the difference between winning and losing the war.

 _tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

**PART V: Play the Game**

 _The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him._

\- G.K. Chesterton

 _25 January 1944  
Paris_

Ruth entered the café the next morning with renewed determination. She had spent long hours the previous night coding Herman Peters' report and agonising over the latest developments, and had eventually come to the decision that she would do her duty with enthusiasm. She would no longer allow herself to harbour negative thoughts about the man she was supposed to have an affair with – she would _force_ herself to become enamoured with him. It was the only way for her to convince others about the affair – she was not good enough of an actress to just pretend. She would sell her soul in the defence of her country; like Malcolm's dead friend had said, there is no shame in that and she would cling to the life-line Harry Pearce's words offered. And only time would tell whether she would be able to live with her actions afterwards.

"Good morning, Francois," she greeted brightly. Might as well start living her decision right away. "Listen," she added, "when the SS officers come in this afternoon, can I serve them rather than Marie?"  
Francois observed her shrewdly. "I take it you have identified the man you wish to seduce?" he asked, and she nodded.  
" _Standartenführer_ Peters visited me last night. I suspect he initially came with the intention of checking that I'm not a spy or something, but we actually hit it off. I think he's hooked," she claimed with more confidence than she felt. She wondered if Peters was a better actor than she was – both of them would have to be convincing for the ruse to work.  
Francois was impressed, and a little alarmed. "The most senior SS man – that would be some coup if you could pull it off. But a word of caution; be careful of that man. He is not to be trifled with. If he realises you are playing him you will end up killed or, even worse, sent to one of the concentration camps."  
She nodded, gamely ignoring the shiver running down her spine. "I will, but I have already gained some useful information from him." She collared Zaf as he walked past. "He let slip that they are becoming suspicious of Zaf's movements. You need to be more careful," she warned the young Punjabi.  
Both men's eyes widened in alarm.  
"Here," she said and handed Zaf Teuton's coded report. "My first report. It's quite long so I've divided it into three parts. I think it would be safest if Adam, Jo and Fiona each sent a part. Will you see that they get it?"  
Zaf nodded and slipped the package under his shirt. "I'll see to it tonight. And thanks – I'll be more careful," he promised.

0o0

 _15:00_

The five SS officers arrived in the afternoon and took their usual table. Ruth observed them surreptitiously from the kitchen; Peters looked the same as he always did – expressionless, unreadable. She should not have expected anything less, given the extensive proof of his self-containment she had already witnessed. The other men were ebullient, as though they had something to celebrate, and she hoped fervently that it was not related to the war. Anything that was good for them would be bad for Britain, and she could not bear the thought of that. She stepped through the door and was immediately aware of two pairs of brown eyes fastening on her. Hans Prinz was staring at her openly and she thought she saw desire in the depths of his eyes. It was food for thought; perhaps there was an opportunity there for her to exploit. She would keep her options open. The other pair was more guarded, more evaluating as Peters tried to gauge her mood as she approached. Ignoring the others, she focussed on him and allowed herself a shy smile. He wasn't bad-looking, really, she decided, her gaze gliding over his features and lingering on his full lips. If he was surprised by her sudden interest in him he did not show it, instead those full lips formed into a hint of an answering smile and it softened his features. No, not bad-looking at all.

"Gentlemen," she greeted as she circled the table and filled their glasses with water, "what will it be today?"  
Peters opened his mouth, but before he could say anything Hans Prinz interrupted. "Herman promised us some _bienenstich_ ," he stated promptly and a flash of irritation crossed the older man's face.  
"Yes," he snapped, back to his usual forbidding self, "is it ready?"  
She favoured him with a wider smile as she reached his side. "Yes, _Standartenführer_ , it is ready. I'll bring it immediately." She dropped her voice as she leaned over his shoulder to fill his glass. "I enjoyed last night," she murmured close to his ear, ignoring the memories brought back by the smell of cigarette smoke that clung to him. "Should I expect you again tonight?"  
He turned his head slightly towards her and she was aware how close together their faces were as he answered. "No. Regrettably I have other commitments. But keep tomorrow evening open," he replied equally softly, and to her surprise he fleetingly touched her hand as she straightened up. Aware of the curiosity of the other men around the table, and of that of Hans Prinz in particular, she reciprocated by squeezing his shoulder in return.

For the rest of the service nothing happened; they had made their point and since neither of them was particularly expressive, they stuck to that. To overplay things would only cause suspicion. Peters took the remaining piece of _bienenstich_ with him when he left, and mindful of his putdown the previous day when she had uttered her part of the code, she was tempted to needle him by asking for it. In the end prudence prevailed and she watched as he shrugged into the long black leather coat he wore against the cold temperatures. Now that she had convinced herself to focus only on the positives, she noticed more and more things about him that was impressive. He carried his rank and power with ease; a man used to giving orders and to have them obeyed without question. He was someone, she realised, that other men would be happy to follow into battle.

She jumped as a voice broke into her contemplation and turned quickly to find Hans Prinz standing next to her. Close to her.  
"What do you want with a man like Herman Peters?" he asked, and she was surprised by the open resentment in his voice.  
She saw an opportunity. "When a _Standartenführer_ expresses interest in you, it is not wise to refuse, no matter what one's feelings on the matter may be." She paused, then added, "I have been warned not to cross him."  
Prinz was watching her closely and seemed buoyed by her answer. "Yes. But there's no reason not to have some fun on the side with a man you actually like, is there?" he queried with a cheeky smile, and she couldn't help but smile back. He was quite handsome. "No reason whatsoever," she said boldly, and was once again aware of the spark of desire in his eyes.  
"Good. Leave it to me. Old Herman will never know," he said confidently, clearly looking forward to cuckolding the older man.  
When she looked back to the door, Peters was watching them, and he seemed unimpressed by the familiarity of their conversation. He gave her an unreadable look and then he was gone, leaving her to ponder what she had learnt about both men.

0o0

 _22:00_

Ruth trudged up the stairs, lantern in hand, the little circle of yellow light bobbing up the steps in front of her feet. Paris was plunged into darkness by one of the increasingly frequent power outages – some said because the Germans were taking all the available coal for their hungry industrial war machine. She was exhausted; on top of the encounter with the SS men it had been a busy day at the café and she and Marie had been run off their feet. She was still pre-occupied by the events of the afternoon. Should she stick to her brief in the strictest sense – only focus on being the link between Teuton and the Service, or should she take this opportunity to also establish a rapport with a second SS officer? Prinz was interested, although she wasn't convinced that it was because he fancied her. Instead she got the distinct impression that he was motivated by the desire to get one over on his superior officer. She wondered at the enmity between the two men – was it merely an ambitious junior officer who wanted to make his mark, or was there something deeper there? Perhaps she would probe a bit the next time she was alone with Peters. It was with a sigh of relief that she closed the door behind her. Mindful of the events of the previous evening she delicately sniffed the air, but there was no trace of smoke. She relaxed and stepped through to the kitchen, and stopped short. A small box sat on the counter next to the sink. She approached it apprehensively and set down the lantern next to it. A note was pinned down under the box and she pulled it out.  
 _I look forward to tomorrow. Herman_

Curiously she opened the box, and smiled in delight. Inside was the final piece of _bienenstich_ she had so coveted that afternoon. As she took the first delicious bite she considered the possibility that there might be another side to Peters that she had not yet seen – a charming side that might actually make this assignment more enjoyable than she had expected. But then she remembered the children, and her mood darkened again. He was not a good man, and she would always have to keep that in mind, would always have to remain on her guard. And that thought decided her – she would pursue the opportunity with Hans Prinz.

0o0

 _26 January 1944_

Herman Peters came for her at 20:00, and Francois let her go even though it was not yet closing time. One did not argue such things with a _Standartenführer_. He held her coat for her, an unexpectedly chivalrous gesture from a man resplendent in the uniform of an SS officer, and offered his arm as they stepped out onto the street.  
"A walk by the river?" he suggested.  
It was bitingly cold out, but the fresh air was nice and she nodded as she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. They strolled in silence, their breath misting in front of them. His black overcoat hung open despite the low temperatures and she became aware of the curious looks they received from passers-by. Curiosity turned to resentment once they recognised the uniform, although they were quick to hide it when he looked at them. Peters gave no sign that he noticed; he strode along with an arrogance commensurate to his role as conqueror. She glanced at his profile; he was a good head taller than her and she had to look up to do so. It was a good profile, a proud one and stern, and she wondered what he would look like when he laughed. She focussed on the corner of his eye and noticed tiny crinkles there, so perhaps he did actually laugh sometimes. They passed an old woman who took in the uniform, Ruth's French clothes and her hand tucked into the German officer's arm, and her face contorted with contempt. Once she was past them, she hissed below her breath, "Horizontal collaborator!" and Ruth jerked round, stung by the venom in the words. Peters took hold of her arm and pulled her back to his side.  
"Ignore it," he advised.  
"What did she mean by that? 'Horizontal collaborator'?" she demanded, and he looked at her with a sardonic smile.  
"It's what the locals call women who sleep with German soldiers. You'd best get used to it," he stated, totally unconcerned.

They had reached the river and strolled along. Even in wartime the scene had a certain magic, a certain romance, and she wished that she could be walking here with someone that she could admire, look up to or even love. Peters could never be that. No matter how hard she tried to focus on his good aspects, she could never forget about those children. She shivered and he glanced at her. Then, to her astonishment, he took off his coat and draped it around her.  
"Here," he said gruffly, "it's warmer than yours."  
"Thanks," she mumbled, unable to hide her surprise, and once again she thought she detected a fleeting look of sadness on his face. But yet again it was gone so quickly that she couldn't be sure. Perhaps she was being influenced by the romantic surroundings; seeing things that weren't there. So she tried to learn a bit more about the man next to her. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, wanting _something_ from him.  
"Is it not what your English gentlemen do when a lady is cold?" he retorted, deliberately misunderstanding her intent, and when she looked at him he was suppressing a smile. He was teasing her, once again catching her off-guard with the unexpected. Thus far he had given no indication that he actually possessed a sense of humour.  
She would not be deterred though. "Seriously," she pressed. "Why are you betraying your country?"

He was silent, all traces of amusement gone from his face. "What does it matter?" he said eventually.  
"Would you trust an Englishman that just walked up to you and offered you information, and never asked for any payment?" she countered. "Most traitors do it for financial gain, but you have never asked for a dime."  
He stopped walking and turned to her, eyes narrowing as he studied her face. "Ah," was all he said as he began to search his pockets for his cigarettes, "so that's why they sent _you_ in particular." There was a pause as he lit one. "They still don't fully trust my information – that's why they sent someone with something between the ears."  
She was impressed by how quickly he had deduced the heart of the matter. He had an unerring instinct when it came to the spying business, and she began to understand how he had managed to survive for so long without getting caught. She said nothing; he did not need her to confirm his suspicions. He knew he was right. But still he did not answer her question.  
Instead he said, "Money is not the only motivation for betrayal. Some do it for ideology, or for political gain. Others," he stated with a slight emphasis, "do it for the game. To see whether they can outwit everyone around them."  
"And that's you?" she asked, not bothering to hide her disbelief.  
He studied the half-smoked cigarette in his hand as though it had a meaning she could not fathom, before he suddenly flicked it into the water. "No," he responded crisply. "If you must have a reason, let's go with ambition." He gave her a piercing look. "Once we lose the war you'll need someone you trust to put in charge of the German intelligence structures. I would like to be that man."  
It made sense, and she knew that the powers that be back in Britain would be satisfied with this explanation. She, however, was disappointed that it was such an ordinary one. In only a short few days she had come to believe that there was nothing ordinary about Herman Peters, and she would continue to probe until she found an answer that satisfied her.

It was time to change tack. "Tell me about Hans Prinz," she asked, and Peters' face immediately darkened.  
He took a step towards her and she had to force herself not to retreat. He grabbed her arm, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. "Stay away from him," he warned roughly. "Don't be deceived by his charm. He is a dangerous man, and you will destroy everything I have worked for if you get involved with him. Do you understand?!"  
She nodded, taken aback by his vehemence, and as they walked back to her apartment she sensed a new tension in him, a heightened guardedness and she wondered whether the fear she had seen in his eyes were for her or for himself. The answer still eluded her by the time they reached her door and he bid her goodnight.

And only once he had disappeared from view, did she realise that he had been a perfect gentleman to her all night. He had not taken advantage of the fact that she had to pretend to be his lover, did not cross the line into lewdness even once. She shook her head, baffled by him, by her own growing interest into what made him tick.  
"The man of contradictions," she murmured to herself, before finally giving up and going to bed.

 _tbc_


	6. Chapter 6

**PART VI: A Crack in the Façade**

 _Silent enim leges inter arma  
(In times of war, the law falls silent)_

\- Marcus Tullius Cicero

 _09 March 1944  
Paris_

Ruth stood in line in front of the grocer's, clutching her ration coupons, hoping fervently that she would be able to get some potatoes. And something green. Anything. She didn't care whether it was something she didn't particularly like, such as broccoli or brussels sprouts, just as long as it was green. This must be how the old seafarers used to feel during a long journey, just before they succumbed to scurvy. The grocer's assistant came down the line and looked at each person's coupons, making sure they weren't counterfeit. There was a thriving black market for these coupons, and as always there were unscrupulous people who saw an opportunity and took advantage of the desperation of others. When he got to her she showed hers to him without complaint; by now she was well accustomed to these things. He examined them carefully and beckoned her out of the line. "Come with me," he said, and she stared at him in surprise. The _Standartenführer_ had given her these coupons – surely they couldn't be counterfeits?  
"What's the problem?" she asked apprehensively, following him obediently all the same.  
"No problem," he assured her over his shoulder. "Those allow you preference – you'll get first choice before we open the store to the rest of the public."

She was stunned. She'd had no idea, and Peters hadn't said anything when he'd handed them over. She'd just assumed they were the normal ones. Uncomfortably aware of the mutinous looks from the others in the queue, she followed him down the line to the door, her head down. And as far as she went, the hisses followed her like a curse. _Horizontal collaborator_. Anger burnt through her. Why had he not warned her that these were special coupons? Did he _want_ her humiliated, reviled? Or did he not even register that she would object to such preferential treatment? In the shop she was joined by three other women, and they all gave her knowing looks. Ruth had to squash her desire to sneer at them, to despise them for sleeping with the enemy to get ahead. She was one of them, or at least had to appear for all the world like she was. So she smiled, and took the small packet of fresh peas available, and some potatoes. But as she handed over her money at the till, she felt like she was handing over a piece of her soul as well.

As she walked slowly back to her apartment, carrying her precious purchases, she pondered the last month and a half since her arrival in Paris. Herman Peters had appeared at her door one night and quite calmly informed her that he was staying over, that people would start to wonder if he did not. He had a small bag of personal items with him, and she stood in her bedroom door and watched him as he moved around and placed the items as carefully as though he was an interior decorator. A German book on the bedside table. Some underwear in the drawer with her own knickers. A casual shirt in the closet, in between her own meagre collection of dresses and blouses. And in the bathroom, some shaving cream and deodorant next to her make-up, creams and perfume. He had spent the night at her place a few times now, and still she felt that she did not know him at all. Nothing about him made sense – she could not point to anything and say with any certainty, _this_ was what Herman Peters was like. He was a mirage – just when she thought she had him pinned down he would disappear and reshape into something completely different.

When he stayed over, they either discussed his latest report or sat and read with the wireless softly playing in the background, and she found those evenings strangely soothing. The silence was never uncomfortable; instead it was companionable. That first night he had looked through the small collection of books she had, and they had discussed their favourite French authors. Once again he had surprised her with his wide range of knowledge on the subject and it strengthened her initial first impression that he must have had some kind of classic education. When she'd asked him about it point-blank, he had merely smiled and said, "Not all SS officers are ignorant country bumpkins with minimal schooling," and left it at that, so that she was none the wiser. The next time he came, he'd brought her a number of books by the authors she had mentioned, and she who so loved to read was nearly overwhelmed by the kind gesture. He had noticed her reaction and had said, "I have always believed that the soul will wither and die without the nourishment that a good book provides," and she had felt that that was perhaps the only thing he had said to her to date which was truly from his heart. He was always considerate and polite; without her having to ask again he no longer smoked in her presence, even though she would sometimes see him reach for his cigarettes before he remembered. She had noted that it seemed to be a Pavlovian reaction that occurred each time she asked a personal question. And not once did he make an inappropriate comment or solicit her in any way. He slept on the sofa and had never entered her bedroom after that first night.

He continued to provide valuable information, and she would go through the reports with him and probe deeper, ask questions to augment the information already there. She knew that he was impressed by her analytical ability, could see it in his manner when they had these discussions. It was the only time he deferred to her completely. He would give her his full attention, head tilted as he considered every angle she brought up. She enjoyed those sessions – it made her feel valued, made her feel that she was making a real contribution, and to her shame she looked forward to these times with him. Yes, she had to admit to herself, she who was so horrified by his involvement in the internment of the Jews and the shooting of the two children, actually enjoyed his company. He was an urbane, intelligent and understatedly handsome man who was interested in her opinions, and she was flattered by it. She was not proud of that, and sometimes in the evenings she would stand before the mirror and stare at herself and wonder what she was becoming.

She passed a woman holding two young children by the hand, who looked at Ruth's vegetables enviously, and for a second she was so overwhelmed by guilt that she almost handed it over. Lowering her eyes to the pavement she hurried past, and for the rest of the journey home she did not lift her head again. By the time she closed her door behind her, she had determined that she would confront Herman Peters and tell him in no uncertain terms that she did not want any further privileges from him.

0o0

 _12 March 1944  
Late night_

In the event it was three more days before she saw him again. None of the SS officers had been in the café for a week, and she surmised that they had all been summoned somewhere. She wondered what it could mean, but Francois and Zaf could shed no light on the matter either. It was late, close to 23:00 when there was a loud knock on her door. She had already dressed for bed and threw on a dressing gown before she opened the door a crack and cautiously peered out. In the weak light of the corridor she saw, to her surprise, a clearly inebriated Herman Peters. He steadied himself with one hand against the wall whilst the other clutched an almost empty bottle.  
"Let me in," he demanded roughly and she felt a spear of panic.  
She had never seen him even slightly tipsy; he was always very much in command of himself. What was going on – why had he come here in this state? And more frighteningly, what did he want from her?  
He wasn't quite drunk enough not to notice her fear, apparently, because he added softly, plaintively, "Please Rosa."  
She pushed the door open and stood aside, and he moved past her with the clumsiness of someone not fully in control of his muscles.

He went straight to the sofa and sank down on it, and took a large swallow from the bottle before he lifted his head and focussed blearily on her. She was shocked; she had never expected to see him like this and she did not know how to handle it.  
"Sorry," he mumbled thickly, and despite his state he managed to look ashamed, "had nowhere else to go."  
His gaze shifted past her shoulder, into nothingness, or perhaps inwards because an expression of such devastation settled on his face that she became truly frightened for him. She went into the kitchen and fetched a glass, and placed it on the table next to him in easy reach. He stared at it uncomprehendingly and did not reach for it; instead he took another drink from the bottle. Whisky, she noticed and inanely wondered where he had got it.  
"Leave me," he said dully, not looking at her, and her heart broke for this man she was once so sure she would never be able to tolerate.  
"What's happened?" she asked, taking a step towards him, overcome by a desire to comfort him in some way. She touched his arm and he jerked away as though stung.  
He turned on her with an almost animalistic snarl, grabbing the glass and flinging it against the wall. It shattered with a loud crack as he repeated, "I said leave me! Goddamn you, just _leave_!"

The force of his anger drove her back, and she turned and fled into her bedroom, closed the door and locked it. She leant against it, breathing heavily, her heart hammering in her chest. What on earth had happened to drive him to this? When she had sufficiently calmed down, she put an ear to the door and listened. It was quiet; she could not discern any movement. Cautiously she unlocked the door and opened it a crack, and peered into the sitting room. He sat slumped on the sofa still, his face buried in his hands, and she could see his shoulders shake. He was crying, she realised with a start. Herman Peters was crying, but no sound escaped him. Even drunk and in intolerable distress, he was contained. She closed the door again and let him cry in private, and crawled into bed. But she could not sleep. At some stage she heard him stumble to the bathroom and empty his bladder, followed by the sound of splashing water as he presumably washed his face. His heavy uncoordinated footsteps went back to the sitting room, and ten minutes after that she could hear him snoring lightly. She got up, unable to restrain herself, and fetched the pillow and blanket he normally used when he stayed over and tiptoed out of the room with it. It was dark in the sitting room; only the faintest of moonlight seeped through the window and fell across his face and she stood momentarily and gazed at his features, finally relaxed in sleep. An air of melancholy clung to him even in slumber and she spread the blanket over him, careful not to wake him. He did not stir. He was dead to the world and when she stumbled over the empty bottle she was not surprised. She gently lifted his head and slipped the cushion underneath it, and he mumbled something unintelligible before stilling again. Gathering the bottle, she made her way to the kitchen and threw it away, then filled a glass with water and put it on the table next to him with a few of her precious aspirin. With a final look at his features, she went back to bed and eventually fell into an uneasy sleep.

0o0

When she woke early the next morning, he was gone. The blanket was neatly folded at the foot of the sofa, and he had even swept up the glass fragments. On top of the blanket was another of his reports, carefully bound with string. She opened it to find a loose note inside, which only contained two words:  
 _Forgive me_  
Ruth stared at the note, disturbed by the events, and wondered again what on earth had happened. Curiously she turned to the report. It was an account of an inspection by SS officers of the concentration camps situated in France and Austria, and gave a detailed description of the terrible acts being perpetrated there: the starvation, the forced labour, how the Jews were being killed and burnt in the gas ovens in such large numbers that their ash sifted down on the surrounding countryside like snow. She put it down, sickened by the images the stark language of the report evoked, and felt tears sting her eyes. So that was where the SS officers had been, Peters himself included. And she began to wonder – was this also the reason for what happened the previous night? Was he perhaps not as indifferent to the persecution of the Jewish population as she had initially thought? It was food for serious contemplation, and from now on she would observe him much more carefully when this topic came up for discussion.

0o0

 _13 March 1944  
Lunch_

Ruth was on edge, keeping a constant eye on the door as she went about her duties in the café. Would he come today? And if so, how would he act? Every time the bell tinkled to announce the arrival of a new customer, her eyes flew to it, and each time she was disappointed. She thought again of the note; perhaps he was too ashamed to come. But he would have to at some stage, and she was not certain how she should react. She would have to be led by him – if he mentioned it, she would discuss it with him. If he pretended that it had never happened, she would honour that too. When had she become so solicitous of his feelings, she wondered suddenly, disturbed. He was slowly drawing her in, weaving a spell around her and she despised herself for her weakness. This man had done terrible things, and she would do well to remember that.

The bell tingled and when she looked up she caught sight of a familiar uniform, and her heart rate increased. But it was not him. It was Hans Prinz, and he was alone. Hiding her disappointment, she went over with a welcoming smile.  
"Hello," she greeted. "Welcome back. I trust your trip went well?"  
She might as well glean whatever she could.  
He grinned, and she noticed that he was buzzing with suppressed excitement.  
"Yes. A great success," he enthused. "It is very gratifying to see such excellent results from one's planning and years of hard work," he added, and she felt sick to her stomach.  
For the first time she noticed the fanatical gleam in his eye when he spoke of these matters, and for the first time Peters' warning about the man made sense.  
Prinz grabbed her arm and she had to fight the impulse to pull away from his touch. "Your lover-boy will get the credit, but it's all my hard work, you know. Don't you think that's unfair?"  
Once again the resentment towards his senior officer was clear to see, and she forced a sympathetic expression onto her face and nodded.  
"Very unfair," she agreed, and hoped that he would not notice the slight tremor in her voice.  
He smiled his charming smile, apparently satisfied with her reaction, before leaning towards her conspiratorially. "Soon dear Herman will go to the coast to inspect our Atlantic defences." He winked and his thumb caressed her arm. "And when the cat is gone, the mice can play a bit. Don't you agree?"  
She felt dizzy and nauseous, but somehow managed to smile and mumble agreement, before making her escape.

When she closed the kitchen door behind her, she looked down at her hands. They were shaking, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that she had saddled a horse for herself which she would not be able to control.

 _tbc_


	7. Chapter 7

**PART VII: It's not the fall that kills you**

 _If we didn't know better we would love one another._

\- Aaron B Powell, Quixotic

 _14 March 1944  
Paris, C'est la Vie café_

Peters came the next day. He entered and stood just inside the door, and when she smiled brightly at him he did not smile back. His demeanour was painfully correct and there was no hint of the ease which had developed between them over the last few weeks. He waited until she had moved close to him before he spoke. "Can I take you to dinner? There's a small bistro on the Seine – I happen to know they have beef on the menu tonight."  
Meat was a rare delicacy in Paris these days and her mouth watered at the prospect. "That would be lovely," she responded, and some of the rigidity left his shoulders.  
"Good," he said, one corner of his mouth lifting in the fleetest of smiles, "I'll come for you at eight."  
He departed without another word, leaving her to digest the implications of the brief encounter. Had he expected her to disapprove of his behaviour two nights ago? Was that the reason for his stiff manner? Could it be that it actually mattered to him what she thought of him? A frisson ran through her at the possibility, and she quickly squashed it, overcome with shame. And then she remembered, belatedly, that she had decided that she would tell him that she did not want any privileges from him anymore. Dear God, what was becoming of her?

0o0

 _20:00_

Ruth was ready long before 20:00 and pottered around the apartment, picking things up and putting them down again as butterflies fluttered around in her stomach. She had spent the rest of the day agonising over her reaction to the _Standartenführer_. Was she really becoming attracted to an SS officer, a man who had shot two children and sanctioned unspeakable actions against the Jewish population? Did she have such weak principles that she would throw them out the window at the merest hint of interest from an attractive man? But she had always had good instincts about people – she was an observer of life rather than a participator, and she noticed small things in the behaviour of others that enabled her to form accurate opinions. She was seldom wrong, and she clung to that lifeline desperately. Things did not add up where Herman Peters was concerned, and what she had learnt from Hans Prinz the previous day only strengthened that view. He had intimated that Peters was not really involved in the Jewish question; that he left that aspect of his responsibilities to others. It was sad how ridiculously happy that titbit of information had made her, and it was then that she had known that she was in trouble – that she was beginning to fall for him. It didn't change the fact that she could not explain away the shooting of the children, though, and she was weighed down by an immense guilt that she could fancy a man capable of such an act. Eventually, weary of the emotional merry-go-round that she was on, she had given up - let the night bring what it would.

He was right on time, impeccably groomed and handsome in his uniform. She could tell that he had put on a fresh one before he had come over, because the lingering scent of cigarette smoke that normally clung to his clothes were absent. She had taken care with her appearance and he stumbled over his greeting as his eyes travelled over her. There was a flash of – _something_ in their brown depths, but he was quick to hide it and she could not identify it. All the same, her nerve ends tingled as she stepped through the door and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. He led her down the stairs and out onto the street, and to her surprise she saw one of the big black cars the SS used parked out front. Feeling reckless and heady, she lifted an eyebrow and asked teasingly, "Isn't this misuse of state assets?" The moment the words left her mouth she wanted to take them back. Would he misconstrue her lame attempt at flirting and take offence? Or worse, would he see it for what it was and take advantage? He opened the door for her, and she did not dare look at his face as she moved past him. His hand came to rest in the small of her back, and the gesture so startled her that she froze. Dipping his head, he murmured into her ear, "Think of it as passive resistance. You are helping me to weaken the German war effort by wasting valuable fuel on frivolity." His voice was low, rich, warm, and it stroked her senses and ignited a want she was careful not to name deep in her abdomen. When she lifted her gaze to his, there was a mischievous glint in his eyes and she realised – under different circumstances he could be good company.

0o0

For the rest of the evening he was just that; he was more relaxed in her presence than ever before and chatted amiably about various topics. But always, she got the impression, there were large parts of him that were carefully locked away, and for the first time she wondered whether it could have anything to do with the shooting of the children. Could all of this – his betrayal of his country, his self-containment, be a result of that one act of cruelty? She had been so caught up in her thoughts that she hadn't realised he had fallen silent, and was contemplating her across the table with an unreadable expression. Not for the first time she wished that she knew what he thought of her.

"Rosa-" he began, but a commotion at the door interrupted and he turned sharply towards it. A small scruffy dog had slipped in with the latest customers and the waiters had it cornered. One of them lifted a long wooden ladle, clearly intent on clubbing the wretched little thing with it, and Herman moved swiftly. In two long strides he was there and grabbed the man's arm before he could strike the dog. The waiter spun round, scowling, but it quickly morphed into fear when he registered the uniform. The SS officer's own face was furious, and he twisted the arm he had in his grasp until the waiter yelped in pain and dropped the ladle.  
"Leave the dog alone," he ordered, and all the waiters melted away hurriedly. Peters glared at the other patrons until they all prudently averted their eyes. He came back to the table and cut a generous piece from his steak, then crouched down near the cowering dog and held it out. The animal looked between the meat and the man holding it uncertainly; clearly its experience of the human race had not been all that positive to date.  
"It's all right," Peters said soothingly, and eventually hunger overcame caution and the dog crept forward and took the proffered meat.  
"Good girl," he murmured as she gobbled it up. Ruth watched on in amazement as the little creature scooted forward and sheltered against Peters' legs, and he scratched her behind the ear. When he stood and came back to the table the dog followed, and lay down under his chair once he'd sat down.

"I think you've made a loyal friend for life," she commented before handing over a piece of her own precious steak to him. His eyes lifted to her face in surprise, before he gave a small smile and took it from her. The dog eagerly consumed that as well, then stayed under the chair quietly for the rest of the meal. When they eventually left, she trotted after them, and Ruth wondered what Peters would do. Without a word he picked her up and deposited her on the backseat of the car, and Ruth could no longer contain her curiosity.  
"What are you going to do with her?" she asked as he started the car and drove the short distance back to her apartment.  
He sighed. "I'll try and find a home for her. It won't be easy, mind – people can barely find enough to eat for themselves, so most won't be eager to take on an animal as well."  
She observed him, noting his morose expression, and realised this was somehow important to him. It mattered to him what became of the little dog. It was yet another unexpected development where Herman Peters was concerned, and without examining her motives too closely she blurted, "She can stay with me."  
He turned his head to her in astonishment and she shrugged before adding cheekily, "Since you have the means to help me find enough food to keep her fed."  
"Ah," he said, understanding dawning, "this is about the special coupons, isn't it?"  
"You should have told me," she said evenly, no longer quite as upset by the matter as she was a few days ago.  
"Would you have used them if I did?" he asked shrewdly, and her silence was as eloquent as any verbal response would have been. "That's exactly why I didn't," he continued, and she looked at him in confusion. He parked in front of her building and turned towards her. "You have to be seen to enjoy the privileges concomitant with dating a senior SS officer. Few people will believe a young woman like you would choose someone like me over, say, a younger man like Hans Prinz without added benefits."

He was watching her intently and she was aware of the weight of the moment, of the fire buried deep in his eyes. Attraction arced between them and she could feel the heat push up her body and spark behind her nipples. Dear God, she wanted him. She swallowed and thought about the children, and did not say that at that particular moment she would pick him over any man on earth. Instead she said, "All right, I'll continue to use them," and cursed the low, husky tone of her voice. His heated gaze stayed on her, the silence stretching and crackling with tension, until he turned his head away and nodded once.  
"Good then."  
When he got out of the car to walk around and open the door for her, she felt bereft, alone in the silence.

0o0

The dog whimpered quietly but stood still as Peters bathed her. He had stripped off his shirt and jacket and was clad only in his white undershirt, and she watched the muscles flex in his shoulders and upper arms as he worked. He talked soothingly to the creature, who watched his face devotedly as he did so. Once she was wet it became obvious how painfully thin she was and Ruth's heart went out to her. In one's own struggles to survive the ravages of war, one tended to forget that it was hard on all living things. She handed him a towel and he vigorously rubbed the little body until she was more or less dry. Now that she was clean the white and reddish brown of her fur was evident, and Peters said out of the blue, "Scarlet."  
Ruth smiled. "That's a nice name for her."  
They settled her in an empty box turned on its side with a small blanket inside, and watched as she immediately fell asleep, clearly exhausted.  
"Poor thing," Ruth said, and Peters looked at her.  
His eyes were gentle and for once unguarded as he spoke. "You have a good heart, Rosa," he said softly, to her great surprise, and she felt herself falling into his gaze. His eyes flicked down to her lips and she caught her breath, her heart hammering in her ears. She was certain that he was about to kiss her and had to physically stop herself from leaning towards him. And perhaps he would have, but the spell was broken by a loud and insistent knock at the door.

Peters briefly closed his eyes. "Who is it?" he snapped.  
"Jurgen Setzer, _Standartenführer_ ," a muffled voice answered, and Peters glanced at Ruth in alarm.  
"Wait!" he ordered, simultaneously putting a finger against his lips for Ruth to keep quiet. He swiftly pulled off his undershirt and she stared at him in alarm, a brief impression of a well-defined, sparsely haired chest burning itself onto her retinas before he grabbed her by the arm and led her toward her bedroom door.  
"Get in bed and hand me your shirt and, er, undergarment," he instructed, and she finally caught up with his thinking. He wanted Setzer to get the impression that they had been in bed together. She half-closed the door and stripped off her shirt and brassiere, and handed it to him. After hastily ruffling the bed covers, she got in and pulled the sheet right up to her chin. Peters had kicked off his shoes and socks and had removed his belt, and she saw him muss his hair before he cast a final critical eye over the scene and yanked open the door.

"This better be a matter of life and death," he said icily to the younger man waiting on the other side.  
Through the half-open door Ruth saw Setzer's eyes widen at the trail of clothes leading to the bedroom before he straightened up and began to salute. He stopped halfway through, belatedly realising that his superior was very much out of uniform.  
"Apologies, _Standartenführer_ ," he mumbled and reached inside his coat. "A priority message came in from Berlin, for your immediate attention." He held out an envelope, his gaze straying back to the brassiere carelessly flung over a chair as Peters took it from him.  
"All right. Now bugger off," the older man said dismissively and closed the door smartly. He stood, listening intently as the footsteps moved away, until he was certain that the _Hauptsturmführer_ had left.

She watched him as he thoughtfully considered the envelope in his hands, turning it over and inspecting it closely. Curiosity overcame prudishness and she got out of bed and slipped on her dressing gown before joining him. "What is it?" she queried, and he glanced at her.  
"The devious little runt has opened it."  
Ruth looked at the envelope in his hands, but it looked fully intact to her.  
"How do you know?"  
He flipped it over again and showed her the back. "There." It was the tiniest of tears in the edge of the flap where it was glued shut, and once again she felt the thrill of admiration for his skills. She would never have spotted it.  
"Why would he do that?" she asked and he huffed a cynical laugh. The gesture made his chest expand and she was abruptly aware that he was shirtless, and that she was half naked under the gown. She swallowed and hoped that he could not see the flush creeping up her neck in the weak light.  
"Because he is looking for any opportunity to put his superiors in a bad light," Peters responded, seemingly unaware of the impact his nearness was having on her. He added bitterly, "If you build an organisation on fear and brutality, you create fertile ground for backstabbing and treachery."  
Her eyes lifted from where they had been tracing his bare skin to study his face. For once he had let his true feelings about the SS filter through, and she wondered whether she would be able to get some truth from him on one of the burning questions in her mind. "Herman," she said softly, reaching out a hand and touching him lightly on the arm, "why are you really doing this? Why are you giving us information?"

He stared down at her and she held her breath, aware of a thousand things at once: the heat radiating from him, the expansion and contraction of his chest as he breathed, the softness of his skin as she feathered her fingertips down his arm, how the hairs rose in goose pimples in their wake. She was aware that his breathing had sped up and that his pupils were dilated so that his eyes were almost black as they searched her own blue ones intently, almost hungrily. Had he made any move towards her in that moment, she knew later, looking back on it in the cold light of day, they would surely have fallen into bed together. But he did not. He said, very softly, so that she almost missed it, " _Meine ehre heißt treue,_ " and the guttural sound of the German was harsh on the ear after an evening spent conversing in the more lyrical rhythms of French.  
Caught in his spell she translated equally softly, "My honour is loyalty."

He turned away from her and moved to sit on the sofa, and once he had settled himself he looked at her again and added, "It is the motto of the SS, and _that_ is why." Then he turned his attention back to the envelope and she knew that those enigmatic words were the only answer she would get. She did not understand what it meant, but she was more determined than ever to make sense of it, of _him_. It had become the most important thing in the world to her, a burning desire to know.  
He tore open the envelope and scanned the letter, and she saw the blood drain from his face. Anxiety gnawed at her – if Herman Peters was moved to fear by whatever he read things must be really bad.  
"What does it say?" she asked, unable to bear not knowing any longer.  
He looked at her gravely. "It's from my boss, Walter Schellenberg. I'm to leave tomorrow to make a tour of the Atlantic defences, and bring my report to Berlin in person."  
Fear squeezed her heart. "Do you think he suspects…?" she queried before petering out feebly. Somehow, after everything, it felt wrong to use the word 'traitor' to describe the man in front of her.  
But he shook his head. "No. The reason he wants me there is to evaluate some information one of our agents has provided." He paused, then added sombrely, "He claims to have got hold of the Allies' Invasion Plan. It provides extensive details on where and when you plan to invade France."

 _tbc_


	8. Chapter 8

**PART VIII: Judgement call**

 _No one person is the cause for or consequence of all that happens. I am just the tenth man, the threshold, the turn in the tide. I stand here on the shoulders of humanity, a mere instrument of time._

\- Krishna Udayasankar, Kurukshetra

 _14 March 1944  
Rosa's apartment, Paris_

Ruth sank down in the nearest chair, her legs weak. It was a disaster of unimaginable proportions – if the Germans had got hold of the Invasion Plan the Allies would be doomed. They would lose the war and the evil of the Nazi empire would be allowed to spread its tentacles even further. "How?" she asked, and Peters shrugged.  
"The letter doesn't say. Rosa," he said urgently and sat forward, "all is not lost. I can try to manage the situation. Schellenberg trusts me. But in order to do so, I'll need to know the details of the Invasion Plan, to know whether they've got the real one." He watched her intently.  
She opened her mouth, but hesitated as an unwelcome thought wormed into her consciousness. What if it was an elaborate trick to get the Invasion Plan? What if Peters was actually a German double agent, who had played her all this time? They stared at one another, and she knew that he had realised what she was thinking, because she could practically see the shutters come down and any openness and ease between them disappear. He instantly withdrew behind his forbidding façade, but not before she saw hurt flash across his face. Or perhaps it was disappointment.  
"I don't know the details," she said lamely, and even though it was the truth it sounded like an evasion.  
He stood abruptly and began to gather his clothes.  
"What are you doing?" she asked, alarmed.  
He paused briefly in buttoning up his shirt but did not look at her. "I have to prepare for the trip to the coast," he said, turning away to look for his shoes.

"Herman…" she sighed helplessly, confused and miserable, and he swung back to her.  
"Obviously you do not trust me, Rosa. That is your prerogative, as it is mine to decide whether I stay or go. I will be away for the next few days on this errand. I suggest you take that time to make up your mind about me." He paused and added more gently, "I cannot determine whether the Germans have obtained the actual Invasion Plan if I do not know what it entails."  
She could not dispute the logic of his argument and nodded wordlessly as he gathered his overcoat.  
He stood with it in his hands and looked at her with regret. "…I had a lovely evening."  
"So did I," she mumbled, and one corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile.  
"I'll see you in a few days then."  
"Yes," she acknowledged, rooted to the spot and fighting the urge to beg him to stay.  
"I'll have some food delivered for Scarlet tomorrow," he added and the dog, as if recognising her new name, lifted her head. When he moved to the door she dashed from her box and fell in behind him, and Ruth stepped forward and picked her up. Peters turned at the door and looked at her one last time, and she clutched the warm body to her, seeking comfort from it as the door closed behind him with a soft click. Scarlet whimpered and Ruth sighed deeply.  
"You sense it too, don't you?" she said as she stroked the dog's head. "You trust him as well – surely I can't be totally wrong about him."

0o0

 _17 March 1944  
C'est la Vie café_

Ruth had asked for an urgent meeting, but it took three days before Adam could safely come to the café. It was very early and still dark outside, and Francois had afforded them some privacy in the small store room adjacent to the kitchen. The blond spy observed Ruth keenly in the weak light; she looked tired and stressed and he felt the unease build up in his chest. Had he misread her? Had it been a mistake to trust such a vital mission to this young, inexperienced woman? "Head office is cock-a-hoop about the quality of the reports from Teuton," he began on a positive note, hoping to bolster her confidence.  
She nodded absently and her eyes slid away from him, flitting around the stocked shelves as though looking for something. Answers, perhaps, because she looked back at him and blurted, "Teuton asked for the details of the Invasion Plan."  
Adam absorbed the news silently. It was a disturbing development, and he now understood her agitation. "I see. Just like that, out of the blue?" he probed, and she realised that she had left out a number of salient facts.  
"No." She explained about the letter from Berlin and the calamitous news that the Germans had reportedly obtained a copy of the Plan, and Adam visibly paled. "Peters said that he needed to know the details so that he could ascertain whether the Plan the Germans obtained was the real one," Ruth continued. "He claimed he could still influence events if he knew what the true facts were."

Adam turned away, rocked to the core. There was no space to pace, so he took a seat on a crate instead and looked up at her. She appeared small and vulnerable, and he felt a pang of guilt. It had been his decision to thrust her into this situation, this very dangerous situation. If they were wrong about Teuton – if he was actually a double agent for the Germans, it could cost Ruth her life if they handled this the wrong way. And the worst of all was that he could not help her – he was not in a position to make a judgement on the loyalties of their agent. Looking at her, at the haunted expression in her eyes, he suspected she already knew this. It had to be her call, _her_ decision whether they should trust a German officer with their biggest secret. If she got it wrong, it could cost the Allies the war and thousands of men their lives. It was a terrible burden to bear. Gently, he asked, "And what is your assessment, Ruth?"  
Not Rosa, she noted, but Ruth. She closed her eyes. How could she possibly make this decision? It was impossible. It was unfair-  
"Ruth." His voice was close to her and her eyes flew open. She had not heard him get up, but he was right next to her, watching her closely. "You have spent many hours in this man's company. No one is in a better position than you to assess where his loyalties lie. So what is your opinion on him?"  
"I…" she began, and faltered. _He fascinates me_ , she thought but did not say. _I sense honour and loyalty, but to whom or what I don't know. And deep isolation and loneliness. I am drawn to him, I am bewitched by him. I_ want _him. Oh God, I think I am in love with him_. All these thoughts flashed through her mind, but she did not voice any of them. Instead she merely admitted, her voice shaking with shame, "I think my judgement regarding Herman Peters may be impaired."

Her voice had dropped so low that he had to strain to hear her, and he immediately understood. It was an all too regular occurrence – agent handlers falling for their agents. His heart sank; this was a complication he could have done without. By rights he should withdraw her immediately, but the operation was at a crucial juncture and there was no ready replacement. No, there was no choice; he would have to trust her instincts, impaired though they may be. At least she was self-aware enough to recognise that she was compromised.  
"Listen to me," he said, smiling gently. "It happens; when people are thrust into stressful and perilous situations emotions become amplified. Everything obtains greater meaning. That does not in any sense take away from the validity of those emotions. It simply means that feelings that would normally have taken months to develop, can do so in a matter of weeks."  
Her gaze was rooted to the floor, and he could see that she was not mollified by his words. Guilt and shame radiated from her, and his heart went out to her. "You don't strike me as a frivolous girl," he continued, "one of those who fall in love with a different bloke every few weeks. You guard your heart carefully, and that is important to remember. The fact that you realise your judgement is compromised is valuable. It shows that you have not lost sight of reality." He paused, and when he continued his voice was grave. "Both of us now have an important decision to make. You must decide whether you trust Herman Peters, and I must decide whether I trust your judgement. But never forget that I am in command of this operation, and the final responsibility for what we both decide here today will rest with me. _Not_ you," he emphasised, and she lifted her eyes to him then. He was still smiling gently. "And my decision is already made: I have faith in your judgement. So, Ruth, tell me – do you trust Herman Peters?"

There was a timeless pause as she considered everything she had learnt about the man, from that first acrimonious interrogation to their last date, when they had come so perilously close to falling into bed together. What she remembered above all, though, was the desolation that had clung to him that night he came to her after the tour of the concentration camps, and the strange look in his eyes when he had told her his reason for betraying his country. _Meine ehre heißt treue_ , he had said. _My honour is loyalty_. And she had known that he was telling her the truth. To Herman Peters, loyalty was the ultimate honour. What she had to decide, was whether that loyalty lay with Germany or with England. And no matter what Adam said, she knew that the final responsibility for this decision would be hers. She took a deep, steadying breath.  
"I do."

0o0

 _Same day, afternoon  
C'est la Vie café_

What she had been dreading for four days finally happened that afternoon. Hans Prinz came into the café and his eyes immediately sought her out. Eagerly. Hungrily. Dread settled in the pit of her stomach and she barely managed to force a smile. He seemed not to notice her reluctance.  
"Hello Rosa," he stated as he scanned the café. There were no other Germans present and he returned his full attention to her. His eyes were a very dark brown in the dimly lit interior. She thought about those eyes observing the atrocities mentioned in Herman's report and revelling in it, and suppressed a shudder. His voice dropped to an intimate register.  
"The old bastard will only be back tomorrow, so let's go to your apartment." He leered at her. "Have some fun." Quite deliberately he put his hand on his crotch and to her horror there was a noticeable bulge there already. She suspected that, should she go anywhere with him alone, he would pounce on her at the first opportunity and there would be little foreplay involved.  
"…Listen, _Obersturmbannführer_ ," she began, and he frowned at the formality. "I've been thinking. Herman has been very good to me, and I don't want to jeopardise that. So tempting though your offer is, I'm afraid I have to decline. I'm sorry."

His face had darkened in anger as she spoke and she waited apprehensively, wondering where Francois was. Would he interfere if the German officer became violent? Prinz took a step towards her and she instinctively shrank back. His handsome face set in an ugly snarl as he hissed at her, "You're rejecting me? For that emotionless piece of shit?"  
A drop of spittle landed on her cheek and she winced. If she wasn't so terrified she might have found his views on his superior interesting, but right then she was desperately focussed on finding a way out of the situation. "Please try to understand my position," she pleaded. "If he finds out I cheated on him there's no telling what he would do. And he is your superior – you will not be able to protect me against him. It's not that I prefer him over you…" she ended weakly as the dark eyes bored into hers mercilessly. She wasn't sure what he saw, but he made an effort to rein in his anger and when he spoke his voice was a touch gentler.  
"He will not be my superior for much longer, _liebchen_ ," he snapped maliciously. "And once he is out of the way I will come for you, and I _will_ fuck you." He grabbed her chin and his fingers dug into her cheeks painfully. "And you, my little tart, _will_ enjoy it." With that final threat, he turned on his heel and marched out of the café.  
She barely reached the kitchen on rubbery legs before she broke down.

0o0

 _18 March  
Rosa's apartment_

Ruth woke early. It was still dark out, and she lay in bed, thinking about the developments of the last few days. She was deeply disturbed by Hans Prinz's threat the previous day – she had no doubt whatsoever that he had meant every word. At least Herman would be back that day. She resolved to tell him everything. If anyone could protect her from Prinz, it was him. But then, after the way they had parted, would he want to protect her? Or had she irrevocably damaged the bond that had been building between them? She could not bear the thought of that, and she got up to retrieve pen and paper. It took her a long time to compose her message – trying to convey everything she wanted him to know without arousing suspicion in anyone else that might read it was not an easy task. Eventually she was satisfied and folded it carefully. She would leave it in the apartment on the off chance that he came here first upon his return, to drop off his report on the German coastal defences. When she left for work, Scarlet on her heels, it was the last thing she looked at before she closed the door behind them.

0o0

 _Early afternoon  
Café C'est la Vie_

Ruth kept a watchful eye on the door all day, looking for the familiar uniform that would indicate the arrival of an SS officer. But when it finally appeared, it was not Herman. Neither was it Hans Prinz, to her great relief. Instead, the junior officer Jurgen Setzer stepped through the door and looked around. She moved towards him, eager for news of Herman.  
"Good afternoon, _Hauptsturmführer_ ," she greeted, "Will it only be you today?"  
His pale blue eyes travelled over her and she suppressed a shudder, remembering how lasciviously those eyes had looked at her brassiere the other night.  
"Actually, _mademoiselle_ Edouard, I came for you," he responded, and she couldn't quite hide her alarm. He smiled thinly. He enjoyed her discomfort, she thought; he enjoyed his role as conqueror and oppressor. How different from Herman, who bore that power with indifference.  
Setzer continued, " _Standartenführer_ Peters is back and has requested your presence. Can you come?" The request was made civilly enough, but still Ruth hesitated. Peters had never before sent someone else to collect her, so why would he do so now? But she also did not want to arouse Setzer's suspicion, so she knew she had no option. She had to go.  
"Yes of course," she swiftly responded, and if Setzer had noticed the slight hesitation he gave no indication. "Let me just inform my uncle," she requested, and made for the kitchen before he could refuse. The pale eyes followed her all the way.

0o0

 _Twenty minutes later_

They were driving further and further from the city centre and her unease grew with each passing mile. The journey had passed in silence; Setzer had not said a word since ushering her into the car and she had been too preoccupied to make conversation herself. Finally her fear won out over prudence and she asked, "Where are you taking me?"  
He glanced at her before returning his attention to the road, and she thought he was not going to respond but eventually he explained, "There is a small farm just outside the city that the _Standartenführer_ plans to acquire. He wants you to see it."  
It sounded plausible and she relaxed slightly, but still the doubts remained. Why involve this junior officer? Why not collect her himself and bring her here? Was he perhaps still angered by the thought that she did not trust him? Before she could analyse the developments any further they pulled up in front of a cottage. It nestled in the middle of a small forest, and no other dwellings could be seen. It was beautiful. Secluded, and very, very isolated. She swallowed against the renewed fear threatening to overwhelm her. Setzer got out and she reluctantly followed suit. The cottage door opened and a man stepped through. She saw the blond head on top of the black coat and her heart lifted. It was Herman after all, and relief flooded her. She almost hurried forward, but then the features of the face belatedly registered. Young, handsome, cruel, and she froze in terror.

It was Hans Prinz.

 _tbc_

 _Please note rating will change to Mature for the next chapter._


	9. Chapter 9

**PART IX: Revelation**

" _I learned to play the instruments of war," he said, "and paint in blood."_

Cassandra Clare, City of Lost Souls

 _Rosa's apartment  
Same day, afternoon_

Herman Peters entered the apartment knowing Rosa would not be there. She would still be at work in the café, but he had his own key now and could come and go as he liked. Once inside he stood still, testing the air, listening to the silence, feeling the density of the molecules against his skin. Years of living as an agent had ingrained caution into him; never take anything for granted, never assume. Always seek the facts. He did this every time he entered his room in the hotel where the SS officers were berthed – made sure no one else had been in there since his last presence. Everything appeared normal. There was no trace of an unknown smell, no dirt on the floor trod in by a careless boot. He exhaled slowly and moved forward. How quickly this place had become a refuge for him. The thought surprised him and his step faltered. He could not explain it. For eight years he had been so careful, had not allowed himself to get emotionally involved with anyone. Then in walked this young woman, and within weeks she had broken through his defences. He was baffled and amazed by it and, truth be told, somewhat scared. Emotion made him vulnerable, and this was the worst possible time to be vulnerable. And yet it was also exhilarating to _feel_ again, to know he was still capable of such passion.

He roused himself from these ruminations and walked purposefully to the bookcase. His report this time was quite bulky; aware of the importance of this information to the Allied cause he had taken care to include as much detail as possible. There were numerous maps, both large scale and small scale, indicating fortified positions, troop strength and type of artillery all along the coast. The Germans had the coast well covered, and it would take a Herculean effort from the Allies to establish a beachhead. Defences were especially strong around Calais, where the Channel crossing would be shortest, and Peters believed an attempt to land there would fail. However, there were weaknesses further south, simply because the Germans did not expect the Allies to take on this much longer Channel crossing. Once again he wished that he knew the details of the Allied invasion plan, and it brought back memories of the last time he had seen Rosa. It had been unfair, his anger at her mistrust. He should not have taken it personally. She was only doing her job, protecting her country's interests despite any feelings she might be developing for him, and he admired her for that.

As he passed through the sitting room he saw the note. It was lying on the coffee table and he veered towards it. Curiously he folded it open and recognised her handwriting immediately. _Dear Herman_ , it began, and his heart beat warmly.  
 _I have what you asked for, and will give it to you without hesitation._  
He blinked, moved by the realisation that she trusted him enough to hand over the Invasion Plan to him.  
 _I missed you_ , she continued, and he could not prevent a smile from spreading across his face.  
 _Love, Rosa_  
Carefully he folded it up again and tucked it into his inner pocket. All of a sudden he was in a hurry. He deposited his report into the false back of the bookshelf and hurried out of the apartment, the only thing on his mind his desire to see her.

0o0

 _Cottage outside Paris_

Ruth was paralysed by shock at the sight of the young Nazi. She knew she had to get away, that nothing good could come of this meeting. But by the time she got her feet to move, the car had pulled away and sped off down the lane. She was on her own with Hans Prinz, and she was terrified. They watched each other across the small expanse of gravel, and he could not quite hide his excitement.  
"Hello, my little _liebchen_ ," he said and took a step towards her, and adrenalin surged through her. She turned and ran. Spurred on by naked fear the likes of which she had never known before, she fled blindly into the trees. His mocking laugh followed her, increased her fear tenfold as she crashed clumsily through the undergrowth. A branch slashed her cheek but she barely noticed; all her effort was concentrated on putting as much distance between her and that evil man. She stumbled over a root and fell heavily, and in the moment she was motionless she heard him coming. He was following her, gaining steadily, and she heaved herself to her feet and ran on. The breath rasped in her chest and her lungs felt like they were on fire, but she pushed on desperately. She had no idea how long she had been running, her legs pumping as fast as she could make them and her arms flaying at her sides, but she kept going. There was only one thought prevalent in her head – get away, buy time, stay alive until Herman could find her. Because she somehow knew, with unwavering certainty, that he _would_ come for her.

The trees unexpectedly opened up into a small clearing, and she frantically looked from side to side, trying to find a path that might lead to other people, to help. As she did so she saw them, and all the fight drained from her. She stopped, frozen by the horror of it, and sank to her knees just as Hans Prinz stepped into the clearing behind her. He walked over and stood next to her, looking down at her expressionlessly. Tears coursed down her cheeks and she made no effort to stop them, to wipe them away. Her training had not prepared her for this; she wasn't sure anything could prepare a person for something like this.  
"I see you found them," Prinz said, and she realised that _he_ had done this. He looked at her again, his lip curling mockingly as he added, "Your Herman's precious Jews."  
She did not understand, and her gaze involuntarily went back to the grotesque tableau. A man, a woman and three children, hanging from the trees in a neat row, faces blue and tongues protruding.  
"Have you been helping him, hmmm, _liebchen_?" he enquired, watching her curiously. "Is that why he is so besotted with you? Because you help him spirit away the filth?"  
She could not answer, could not form any words, and the only sound that escaped her was a sob. _A family_ , she thought wretchedly, a whole family wiped out in one go by this madman. She found her voice. "You bastard!" she ground out and flew at him, scratching at his face with every ounce of strength she possessed. He was caught off guard by her ferocity and she managed to draw blood before he grabbed her wrists. His face twisted in fury and she spat at him, deriving some satisfaction when her spittle hit his eye, making him cry out. "Herman will see you court-martialled for this," she said with conviction, but it did not have the desired effect. He laughed in her face. " _I'll_ be court-martialled? Oh no, little _liebchen_ , it will not be me who will have to account for my actions. It will be your beloved _Standartenführer_ who will have to explain why he has been helping Jews escape." His eyes had turned dark and hard as he added with undisguised satisfaction, "Herman Peters is finished. He will be shot for this treachery." He began to unceremoniously drag her back to the cottage, and she had no strength anymore to fight him.

0o0

 _C'est la Vie café_

Peters entered the café and looked around, eager for his first glimpse of her. He had missed her too. During his trip to the coast he had spent many hours on the road, with nothing to do but stare out of the window. During those times his thoughts had often drifted to her, probing every word and action, analysing every expression. He tried to tell himself that she was only playing a role, that she was not really interested in him, that he was a fool to be so enamoured with her. But it did not work. He _knew;_ had seen the flash of desire in those beautiful eyes when he'd been shirtless, and he was convinced that he had not misread her gentle joy at his presence during those evenings spent in her apartment. But she was so young, so innocent, and when his thoughts turned to the flash of thigh he had seen, and the shadow of a pale breast, unencumbered by brassiere, he hastily quashed it, embarrassed by the lust burning in his blood. It was getting more difficult to hide it with each passing day, and he knew she would read some of it in his face when next she saw him. His famed self-control was slipping – he was helpless in the face of her intelligence, courage and demure beauty. It was becoming almost impossible to hold onto his vow of self-denial.

Francois came out of the kitchen and spotted the SS officer standing just inside the door. A look of puzzlement crossed his face but it did not quite register with Herman.  
"Hello Francois," he said, "is Rosa here?"  
Puzzlement became concern. "No, _Standartenführer_. I thought she was with you," the café owner responded cautiously.  
Herman frowned. "Why would you think that?"  
"Well…" Francois faltered; he had no wish to get involved in a squabble between two SS officers, but he was now quite concerned about Rosa's welfare. "Because _Hauptsturmführer_ Setzer came to fetch her – he said you had sent him to do so."  
Alarm spread across the senior SS officer's face, which did nothing to dispel Francois' own fears. Zaf had come out of the kitchen behind Francois and now interjected. "There's more, _Herr_ Peters," he said gravely. "Yesterday I overheard a conversation between Rosa and _Herr_ Prinz. He, er, propositioned her, but she said no. It made him very angry."

Cold fear gripped Herman. He understood immediately what the young Punjabi was driving at – that Prinz had used the junior officer to lure Rosa to him. He knew Prinz, knew exactly what he was capable of, and the thought of Rosa in his clutches almost drove the breath from him. "How long ago?" he ground out through jaws clenched with dread, but Francois was staring at Zaf incredulously and did not respond. Herman lost patience. " _How long_?" he snapped, and it was Zaf who answered.  
"About an hour. He took her away in one of your black cars."  
He had barely finished speaking before the SS officer was through the door at a run.  
Francois was still staring at Zaf. "You shouldn't have drawn attention to yourself like that. Now he knows you know about everything that goes on around here."  
Zaf looked at him calmly. "He likes her. I think Rosa is in big danger, and if that is the case, Herman Peters is the best chance she's got." He shrugged, "It was worth the risk of my own exposure."

0o0

 _Stay calm. She needs you to stay calm_ , he told himself over and over as he ran to the SS headquarters as fast as he could. His only thought was to find Setzer and squeeze the necessary information out of him. He was a man capable of swift and brutal violence when needed, and he would have no qualms in beating the junior officer to a pulp if that would get him what he wanted. But he also knew that violence was not always the best option – perhaps there were other ways to persuade an ambitious man to divulge what he knew. _An hour_ , he thought desperately. Dear God, it was unbearable to think what Prinz might have done to her already.

He rounded a corner just as a black car pulled up in front of the building and Setzer got out, flicking a cigarette into the street.  
"Stop!" Herman bellowed authoritatively, at the same time forcing himself to slow down to a brisk walk. It would not do to let the man see his utter desperation. Setzer instinctively froze; the respect for authority so deeply ingrained in every German soldier preventing him from ignoring the order. He watched apprehensively as Peters strode towards him, and saluted smartly once he had come to a stop in front of him.  
" _Heil_ Hitler!"  
The _Standartenführer_ did not return the salute and Setzer's heart sank, now certain that the other man knew of his involvement in the disappearance of the young woman.  
"I have been told that you have used my name without my authorisation," Peters said, his eyes boring into Setzer's. He almost sounded amused, but there was no mirth in his gaze.  
"I'm sorry?" Setzer hedged, feigning ignorance, and by the time he saw the blow coming it was too late to duck. The backhanded slap caught him right on the mouth and was forceful enough to snap his head back. He staggered, the taste of blood filling his mouth.  
"It would behove you, _Hauptsturmführer_ ," Peters said tonelessly, "to think carefully about your options. Do you really want to back Prinz against me?" He took a step closer to the other man, so that Setzer could feel his warm breath on his face. "Do you think that I will allow that slimy upstart to undermine me and get away with it? If it comes down to a dirty dogfight, Jurgen, who do you think will come out on top?"  
Setzer swallowed, all too aware of Herman Peters' reputation.  
"If you tell me what I want to know," Peters continued, "I will not forget it." It was a juicy carrot dangled out. The backing of a man of the stature of the _Standartenführer_ could be very useful to an ambitious junior officer, and Setzer knew it.  
"Now, where did you take her?"  
Still Setzer hesitated, but when the other man's eyes flashed dangerously his courage deserted him and he hastily said, "There's a little cottage in the woods, on the outskirts of the city. Hans said you've been there."

0o0

Herman worked swiftly but methodically, the activity serving to keep the panic at bay. The whole set of circumstances was an unmitigated disaster. Hans Prinz knew about the cottage, which meant that he was probably also aware of its use. And he had seen Herman there, so he knew of his involvement as well. He had to get to him before the younger officer informed Berlin – if he had not already done so. Herman could see everything he had so painstakingly built up going down the drain in one fell swoop, and at the worst possible time during the war. First he went to his room in the hotel and closed the curtains. Out on the pavement a homeless boy saw the signal and immediately ran down the street to give the message to his contact. Herman dressed in casual clothes and left by the rear exit before making his way to a garage a few blocks away. There he retrieved a motorcycle, and within twenty minutes of speaking to Setzer he was on his way.

0o0

Prinz dragged Ruth into the cottage and shoved her down on a chair. "Sit, little _liebchen_ ," he said and smiled at her. The smile was still charming, but the eyes behind it were hard and bright. He sat down opposite her and took out his dagger, and her stomach clenched fearfully. The blade caught the light as he turned it in his hand, and she saw there was an inscription etched into it. He noticed her interest. "Each SS officer gets one of these," he explained. "It has the SS motto here on the blade – _Meine ehre heißt treue_. Herman never showed you his?"  
She refused to answer but he continued, unperturbed. "No, I suppose he didn't, seeing as he has neither honour nor loyalty."  
Once again she bit her tongue, fighting the urge to defend Herman, but Prinz was watching her closely and saw the colour rise in her cheeks. He smirked. "You disagree? Interesting. Old Herman must be better in bed than I gave him credit for, to turn the head of such a pretty young thing." He tilted his head and studied her with interest. "Do you know, for eight years I have never seen him even look at a woman. I'd always assumed he was a closet homosexual. And yet, the moment you walk through the door he drops his pants in a flash." He shook his head at the apparent madness of it all. "That interested me, so I decided to do a little digging into his background. And I wonder; do you have any idea what I found?" He reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of paper, unfolding it carefully and showing it to her. It was a death certificate, she realised, dated 1906. "I found that Herman Peters does not exist. He is a myth."

0o0

Herman pulled off the road and into the trees a mile short of the cottage. He hid the motorcycle in some dense underbrush and quickly made his way through the forest. He knew the area well, knew exactly where he was, and he ran as fast as he could without making too much noise. The Luger was in his hand, cocked and ready, and he hoped he would not stumble and pull the trigger by accident. If he did so he would lose the element of surprise, and that could mean Rosa's death. _If she was still alive_. He squashed the treacherous thought hastily and pushed harder, and that's when he entered the small clearing and saw the grotesque display. His stride faltered and he gasped in horror, but it was obvious that nothing could be done for these people any more and he did not stop. A red mist descended on him, and for the first time in his life he felt pure, burning hatred for another human being. He ran on swiftly; fuelled by the hate, he did not feel the fatigue creeping into his muscles. He did not feel anything but the overwhelming desire for retribution.

0o0

She could not hide her surprise and he got up and held the paper in front of her eyes. "A two year old boy named Herman Peters died in 1906, and your lover-boy took his identity. So tell me Rosa, who is he _really_?"  
She shook her head, dazed and confused. _Who was he_?  
"Shall I tell you what I think?" Prinz continued, moving closer and tracing her cheek with the tip of the dagger. "I think he's a sheep in wolf's clothing. A Jew in disguise. That would explain why he's helping the Resistance to get Jews out of Paris." He smirked again as he thought of something. "You've seen him naked – you can confirm my theory. Is he circumcised?"  
Ruth closed her eyes and tried not to tremble as the cold blade slid across her skin. She hoped he could not read her elation that he'd jumped to the wrong conclusion. Even though she had never seen Peters naked, she was certain he was not Jewish. But rather let him believe that than finding out the truth – that Peters was giving information to the Allies.  
"Yes," she croaked, and opened her eyes to look at him defiantly. "He is a Jew." After a slight pause she added belligerently, "He is a Jew and a human being," and saw the anger flash in his eyes as he drew his arm back to slash her for this impertinence. She screamed and turned her head away, and out of the corner of her eye she saw movement in the door before Herman's voice lashed through the room.  
" _Hans_!"  
The arm faltered in its downward arc as Prinz spun round in surprise, and the tip ripped through her blouse and grazed her shoulder. She saw the gun in Herman's hand, saw the muzzle flash, and screamed again when the bullet slammed into Prinz's chest and his blood spattered over her. He was knocked onto his back and Herman stepped forward, his face emotionless as he aimed between the eyes and pulled the trigger again without any hesitation. Ruth whimpered and buried her face in her hands as the second shot echoed around the room, before a heavy silence descended.

The smell of cordite and blood permeated the air and she felt sickened. Until today she had not really been faced with the ugly reality of war, but she had now seen more of it than she ever wanted to. Was there no end to the cruelty humans were capable of? The silence stretched on, and she lifted her head and looked at the man she knew as Herman Peters. He had picked up the death certificate and stood looking at the blood spattered document with resignation and, she realised, with some relief.  
"Who are you?" she asked, and he lifted sad eyes to look at her. For long seconds he said nothing, and she could sense his internal struggle. It went against his grain to divulge any personal information, and she wondered whether he would ever tell her the truth. But eventually he spoke.  
"…I am not a German," he responded in English, and she stared at him in wonderment as the pieces of the puzzle finally fell into place.  
With growing excitement she blurted, "You're Harry Pearce, aren't you? Malcolm's friend," and it was his turn to look at her in wonderment, even as he smiled gently at the sound of his real name.  
"Yes."  
"Oh thank God," she sighed, and reached for him.

 _tbc_


	10. Chapter 10

**PART X: Show no fear**

 _To know your Enemy, you must become your Enemy._

\- Sun Tzu, The Art of War

 _18 March 1944  
Cottage outside Paris_

He held her, revelling in her warmth and the softness of her curves. For eight years he had not allowed himself such closeness to another human being, and he had almost forgotten the pure joy to be derived from it. But now it came rushing back in a tumult of emotions and he had to swallow against the tide threatening to overwhelm him. He was alive, and _she_ was alive, and even though he knew there was no time he allowed them a minute to savour this first physical contact. She trembled against him and he murmured assurances into her hair, the English words strange and yet so familiar on his tongue.

Eventually he pulled back and they looked at each other, smiling bashfully. "We have to go," he said and she nodded, belatedly remembering the dead man lying behind her.  
She shuddered and stammered, "In the woods, there's… He'd…" and he felt a hot spear of anger that Prinz had let her see the horror.  
"I saw them," he responded grimly, before he took her by the hand and led her outside. She did not look back at the corpse of Hans Prinz. Harry carefully closed the front door behind him and looked at his watch. "He should be here any minute," he stated and she frowned in confusion.  
"Who?"  
"My contact in the Resistance," he explained and she shook her head, overwhelmed by the turn of events. Only an hour ago he was still the SS officer who was responsible for the implementation of the Final Solution plan against the Jews, and now he had turned into the undercover English intelligence officer assisting Jewish families to escape that very plan. Herman- no, _Harry_ smiled at her gently. "We'll talk later. There is a great deal we need to clear up, isn't there?"  
Just as she nodded a man stepped from the edge of the trees and looked about warily. He was dressed in country clothes and had a gun in his hand. Harry lifted a hand in greeting and then murmured to Ruth, "Wait here."

Both men moved forward and met in the middle of the clearing. Ruth strained her ears as they conversed in low voices, and she was able to pick up the words in the silence that surrounded them.  
" _Bonjour_ Marcelle," Harry greeted and the other man nodded as his eyes flitted to Ruth.  
"She is with the Resistance in Paris," Harry explained, then swiftly got to the point. "A German SS officer discovered the cottage and the people we had hidden here. He hanged them in the clearing to the west."  
"Bastard," the other man spat as Harry continued.  
"He also kidnapped this woman and was about to do God-knows-what to her when I got here. I killed him," he stated without any flicker of emotion. "He's back in the house. Your people must bring the bodies of the family here, then burn down the whole place to destroy any evidence."  
Marcelle nodded.  
"Give me about two hours before you set the place alight," Harry instructed before clasping Marcelle's hand briefly. "I'm sorry to leave this distressing task to you. You'll make sure to recover the family's valuables and keep it safe for their next of kin?"  
Once again the Frenchman nodded his assent. He was obviously a man of few words.  
"Be careful – I don't know whether he has informed the Germans about the cottage," Harry warned before turning back to collect Ruth and shepherd her into the trees.

0o0

Once they were out of sight of the Frenchman Harry took her hand and led the way. In his other he held the Luger at the ready, and she tried to be as quiet as possible as they made their way through the forest. He gave the clearing with its gruesome scene a wide berth and she was thankful – she had no desire to see it again. So many questions milled around in her head, but they would have to wait; first they had to get away. She wondered what Harry would do now. Surely he could not continue living the ruse of Herman Peters. There was every chance that Prinz had informed Berlin what he had found, and a return to that identity would mean almost certain death. She would contact Adam; get him to extract them as soon as possible. Or perhaps Harry Pearce already had an escape plan in place.

He came to a stop and she peered round his bulk. A motorcycle was hidden in the brush a few yards away and he moved towards it purposefully.  
"Where are we going?" she asked softly as he detached a dark bundle strapped to the seat.  
He glanced up at her. "Back to Paris," he responded equally softly as he shook out the bundle and she noticed to her alarm that it was his uniform. "We have to be seen there before word of the fire reaches the SS Headquarters," he explained as he began to strip off his clothes and put on the uniform.  
"No. Nononono," she said urgently and stepped forward to grab his arm. "You can't go back to being Herman Peters – they'll shoot you!" In her fear her voice rose and he clamped a hand across her mouth, and her eyes widened above it in realisation. He was close to her, chest to chest, and the brown eyes gazing into hers was gentle and filled with emotion.  
"Quiet," he cautioned and waited until she nodded before removing his hand. But he stayed close to her, his chest brushing hers as he took a deep breath.  
"I _have_ to go back," he said to her horror, and when she began to shake her head vehemently he continued. "If I don't, Prinz will have won." He was resolute, holding her eyes and willing her to understand. She studied him, the determined set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders, and the whirl of emotion in his eyes, and she understood. Reluctantly, and much against her will and her common sense, she understood.  
" _Meine ehre heißt treue_ ," she murmured, unaware that her hand had glided down his arm and gripped his.

His fingers curled around hers as he smiled wryly. So clever, this extraordinary young woman. "My honour is loyalty," he confirmed, revelling in the freedom to utter the words in his mother tongue for the very first time.  
Her grip on his hand tightened as she stared at him wordlessly, everything making sense at last. He was Harry Pearce, loyal to his beloved England, who had lived a lie for eight years, sacrificing his life as he knew it because he believed war was coming. She was struggling to comprehend the enormity of it, and perhaps he saw some of that in her face because he squeezed her fingers gently in return.  
"What is your name?" he asked, before clarifying, "Your _real_ name."  
"Ruth." It felt good to say it. It felt good to say it to _him_ , and she realised with a pang how much she had yearned to be her true self with him. "Ruth Evershed."  
He smiled. "Ruth." He tested the feel of her name on his tongue and she loved the sound of it in his beautiful voice. But then he asked, "Why did you come to Paris, Ruth? Why did you accept this assignment?"  
Her eyes slid away from him, toward the dark trees beyond his shoulder and he continued, probing with deft assurance. "It can't have been an easy decision for you – you are not a woman that offers yourself freely or with ease."  
She looked back at him, knowing that he knew the answer already, that he had read her own commitment to her country as surely as she had sensed that same commitment in Herman Peters almost from the start. "Because my country needed me to," she answered, lifting her chin in defiance.  
He let out a breath and nodded. "Yes," was all he said, and her shoulders sagged. Nothing she could say would convince him not to go back to being Herman Peters, because he believed that his country needed him to do it, still.  
She nodded mutely, miserable and fearful for him, wondering whether she might lose him before she truly had a chance to know him. To know Harry Pearce.

0o0

 _One hour later  
SS Headquarters, Paris_

His boots rang on the flagstones as he crossed the courtyard, and it didn't quite drown out the hammering of his heart in his chest. Every sense was sharpened; his focus absolute as he scanned the environment for any hint of threat. The shadow crossing his path as a cloud scudded in front of the sun. The flash of a red skirt in his peripheral vision as a secretary moved past a window on the first floor. The clatter of a type-writer to his right and the hum of traffic behind him. The smell of firewood and of wet earth. He noticed it all – colours and sound amplified until it was almost painful. This was what it had been like during those first months, every day. Waiting to be found out, to be blown. To be lined up against a wall and shot in the back of the head, like he had seen them do too many times. A soldier walked towards him and his adrenalin spiked; his gaze raked over the man, noting the side-arm, the dagger in its sheath on the belt. He focussed on the man's hands; they swung next to his body, relaxed and unthreatening. His eyes shifted to the face, confirmed with a sweeping glance that the soldier had no interest in him. A deep breath to damp down the adrenaline. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth and filled his lungs with smoke, and as he did so he filled every part of his conscience with the mantra: _I am Standartenführer Herman Peters, and I am not afraid._ He held the smoke for as long as he could before exhaling it in a long cloud, and along with it all vestiges of the English intelligence officer he was in another life. As he had done for eight years now. And yet… This time it was different. This time, she was there in the back of his mind – Ruth Evershed, unmovable. Chipping away at his armour, breaching his defences with that intoxicating mix of innocence, bravery and fierce intelligence. And the promise of passion buried deep within, which he longed to coax out, to fan to the inferno he suspected she was capable of once unleashed. He would see her tonight, and tomorrow he would go to Berlin, and into the lion's den. But first- first he had to deceive them about Hans Prinz.

If Prinz had informed them about the real purpose of the cottage, or about the death certificate of Herman Peters, he knew they would be waiting for him. They would be going through the papers in his desk while they waited, but they would find nothing. He was too good at this; too careful to leave incriminating evidence lying around. So when he reached his office door he did not hesitate – he opened it with authority and stepped through like the arrogant senior officer he was. Who had nothing to hide. _Show no weakness._

There was one man waiting inside. Lounging behind his desk, the chair tipped insolently back on its hind legs, was Jurgen Setzer. And he looked very much like a man who thought he had incriminating evidence against a senior officer.

0o0

 _C'est la Vie café_

Ruth went about her work like a robot, barely registering the customers. She still laughed at their bad jokes, still asked about their families, but later she would have no recollection of doing so. The only thing she could think about was Harry Pearce, walking back into the bosom of the enemy even though he might be blown. He had rehearsed their version of events with her a few times before dropping her off at the café: Prinz had had her brought to the cottage with the aim of seducing her, but Peters had arrived before he could make much headway. The _Standartenführer_ had pulled rank in no uncertain terms, and had then informed Prinz that he suspected that the cottage was being used by the Resistance, and had left the junior officer there to do a thorough search whilst he brought Rosa back to Paris. She was not at all sure the Germans would buy it, but Harry was unperturbed. "As long as we believe it when we tell it," he'd said, " _they_ will believe it." So she repeated it over and over again in her head, until she believed it herself. But all the time, hidden in the back of her mind, was the fear that she would not see him again.

0o0

 _SS Headquarters_

Setzer watched his superior officer through narrowed eyes, and Harry could sense the barely suppressed excitement in the other man. He clearly believed he had the upper hand now. Anger rose in Harry's chest and he stepped forward, intent on divesting Setzer of his delusions.  
"Where is Hans Prinz, _Standartenführer_?" Setzer inquired, and had barely finished speaking when Harry reached his side and kicked the chair out from under him. The German sprawled on his back, the breath temporarily knocked out of him, and before he could recover Harry placed his foot on his neck and applied pressure. Setzer's eyes bulged, first in surprise and then because of the lack of oxygen, and his hands scrabbled ineffectually at the boot. The polished black leather glinted in the weak sunlight streaming through the window, and his fingers could get no purchase on its smooth surface. Harry released the pressure slightly and Setzer gasped, gulping air into his screaming lungs.  
"Prinz is exactly where I left him, _Hauptsturmführer_. And you will shortly be joining him."  
Fear flooded Setzer's eyes, and Harry gave the neck a final squeeze before he stepped back. He lit a cigarette, allowing the other man to sit up woozily before he continued. "I suspect that cottage is being used by the Resistance. I left Hans there to search it and to lay a trap. Get over there and help him."  
It was a dismissal, and he paid Setzer no further attention as he stepped around him and picked up his chair. Setzer stumbled to the door, his hand on his neck, where the boot-print flamed red. Humiliation oozed from every pore.  
"And Jurgen," Harry said, his voice devoid of emotion, and the younger man turned towards him. "If you so much as speak to Rosa again, I'll cut off your balls."  
Setzer swallowed and nodded mutely before reaching for the door, but it flew open of its own accord and a messenger stepped through. He saluted before hurriedly saying, " _Standartenführer_ , there has been a fire at a cottage outside Paris. _Obersturmbannführer_ Prinz is dead."

Setzer's eyes flew to Harry and the accusation in them was unmistakable.

 _tbc_


	11. Chapter 11

**PART XI: Cruel to be kind**

 _We can no longer believe that after death, if we have sinned, we shall enter hell. Hell has been acted out here on Earth in the time of Nazi Germany, when even the innocent went in their millions to a hell that beggars the imagination._

\- Brian W Aldiss

 _18 March 1944  
SS Headquarters, Paris_

"What happened?" Harry enquired, ignoring Setzer's accusing look.  
The messenger looked crestfallen. Prinz had been a popular officer. "It looks like the Resistance surprised him and there was a shootout. The _Obersturmbannführer_ was shot and they set the cottage on fire, probably to destroy any evidence."  
Harry's mouth set in a grim line. _I am Standartenführer Herman Peters, and one of my officers has been killed by an enemy I despise._ His face flushed in anger. "I will not stand for this. I want swift and terrible retribution." He turned to Setzer, who was watching his senior officer's reaction like a hawk. " _Hauptsturmführer_ Setzer will take charge of the operation, and report to me personally."  
Setzer's eyes widened in surprise, and then he smiled. He saluted smartly. "Yes, _Standartenführer_."  
The messenger nodded and stepped out of the office, but Setzer lingered behind. Harry stared at him, waiting for him to speak.  
"Getting the enemy to do your dirty work, _Standartenführer_?" He shook his head in sly admiration. "You knew the Resistance would come to that cottage and you left Hans there on his own, so that he had no chance. And just like _that_ ," he snapped his fingers, "your rival is removed. With no blood on your hands. It's a move worthy of King David himself."  
All through his little speech he watched Peters closely, but he could not detect the slightest flicker of emotion on that impassive face, and a trickle of fear crawled up his spine. Had he miscalculated? If so, he might just have signed his own death warrant.  
But Peters merely said, "There is an opening for an _Obersturmbannführer_. Perform well in this task and I may consider promoting you."  
The two men continued to stare at each other in a silent battle of wills, and eventually Setzer blinked first. He nodded and turned away, closing the door softly behind him.

Harry sat, staring at the closed door, until he became aware of the cigarette still smouldering between his fingers. In a burst of movement he stabbed it out in the already full ashtray and closed his eyes.

0o0

 _21:35  
Rosa's apartment_

Ruth pottered around the flat, strung as taut as a violin string. Harry had said that he would come tonight, to get the information about the Invasion Plan before he went to Berlin the next day. She glanced at the clock again and fear clutched at her heart. Had he been arrested? Or perhaps even shot as Prinz had promised? The thought closed her throat and she walked another circuit of her tiny sitting room. Scarlet seemed to sense her anxiety and sat bolt upright, her eyes following Ruth's every movement. There were so many questions she still wanted to ask him and she could not bear the possibility that she might never see him again. A noise in the corridor outside drew her attention and she froze, listening closely. But the footsteps moved past her door and the disappointment knifed through her. _Come on, Harry. Please be alive, please come_ … She considered getting ready for bed, but somehow that felt like a surrender of hope and she did not move. And then, blessedly, a second set of footsteps outside her door. Footsteps she realised with a start she recognised; assured and yet light. Harry. He had barely knocked when she had the door open and pulled him inside. It wasn't clear whether she or the dog was more overjoyed to see him.

He smiled at her and her heart lifted, but she could see the strain of the day etched in the lines around his mouth. Her hand lifted of its own accord and came to rest on his chest. "How did it go?" she asked, and he sighed.  
"I'm still alive, and still a _Standartenführer_ ," he responded flatly. "But Jurgen Setzer knows something is up, and he will squeeze every advantage he possibly can out of me. And when there is no more advantage to be had, he will betray me."  
Ruth frowned in concern. "What did you give him?"  
Harry sank down on the sofa and smiled up at her weakly. "I promised him Prinz's job."  
She could not help it – he looked so drained that she reached out and ran her hand through his hair. His eyes closed in appreciation and he reached for her, taking her by the waist and drawing her towards him until he could rest his forehead against her stomach. She continued to caress him, surprised at the softness of his hair, and his fingers flexed against her waist in response.  
"Ruth," he murmured and stood swiftly, and his heated eyes bored into hers and ignited a fire in her blood. They moved simultaneously and their lips crashed together, and the fire threatened to turn into an inferno. He kissed her passionately, and his lips were as soft as she had imagined they would be. His tongue asked for entrance and she granted it immediately, no longer in control of her body's reactions to him. Base instinct had taken over and she met his tongue stroke for stroke, knowing the rhythm he set was a rehearsal for what was surely about to happen next. God, he was a good kisser. His hands were in her hair and she wished they would move lower, would explore her body. But instead he began to slow down the kisses, began to find the self-control from somewhere to walk them back from the brink, and she followed his lead even though every cell in her body was screaming for more.

At length he pulled away. "I go to Berlin tomorrow," he said, and she wasn't sure whether the words were meant to convince himself or her. But he was right – there was a war to be won, and duty had to come before pleasure at this crucial stage. He moved to the bookcase and retrieved his bulky report from its hiding place and held it up. "The details of the Germans' coastal defences." As he talked he spread the maps on the coffee table and she moved closer to study them. He pointed to the alarming number of red marks around Calais. "These indicate the fortified positions of the Germans. Please tell me the Allies are not going to try to land their invasion force there."  
She shook her head and relief flooded his face. "We're going south, to the Calvados coast and the Cotentin Peninsula in Normandy." She pointed on the map, and thankfully there were fewer red dots in that area.  
Harry smiled in appreciation. "Good, good. Do the unexpected," he mused warmly, and she remembered the quality of his military analysis in his reports. It was obviously what he would have done himself had he been in command. They settled on the sofa next to each other and pored over the map as she explained the details of the Invasion Plan to him. "They plan to go in the first week of June, most probably the fifth. They're targeting five beaches. US troops will attack the two beaches east of the Orne river-mouth, and the British and Canadian forces the three westward ones."  
Harry frowned. "There are no existing harbours at those beaches – how are they going to re-supply the troops if they manage to get a foothold on land?"  
Ruth smiled. "They're bringing their own."  
"Pardon?" he said, looking at her incredulously.  
"They are pre-fabricating the structures and will tow them across the Channel. Then, once the Invasion starts, they will be sunk at the beaches to provide a breakwater. They call them mulberries."  
He shook his head in admiration.  
She continued, "The paratroopers and glider-borne troops will be first in - dropped under cover of darkness, but the main part of the Invasion will start at first light. The ships and the Air Force will provide cover for the ground troops, who will be ferried from the ships to the beach in various kinds of landing craft. Some of these can deposit a whole company to the beach at once, whilst others can carry tanks and other armoured vehicles." She paused. "The scale of this is quite simply staggering."

When she was done he sat back deep in thought. His eyes flickered to all those red dots along the coast and sadness flitted across his face as he thought about the many young lives that would be sacrificed in this endeavour.  
"It's the best plan they could have come up with under the circumstances," he stated, and she watched in fascination as he shuttered away the emotion of a second before. Did he ever let go completely? Did he ever allow himself to live his emotions, or had he lost that ability in the eight years he had been undercover?  
"Let us hope that the Germans have not got hold of the real Plan, otherwise they will be able to move the majority of those troops in the north down – that could be done within a few weeks – and then the invasion will never succeed," he added.  
It was a sobering thought and a frightening one, and she looked at him gravely. "And if they have got hold of the real one?"  
He lifted his chin. "Then it is up to me to convince them that it is not."

There was a pause as they both contemplated the enormity of what was at stake, and her fear for him resurfaced with a vengeance. "If Prinz informed Head Office about the death certificate, or even about your ties to the Resistance, you will be arrested the moment you step off that plane in Berlin." _And shot_ , she did not say.  
Harry smiled ruefully. "Yes. But I don't think he has."  
"How can you be so sure?" she asked incredulously and he shrugged, rather too blasé about the whole thing for her taste.  
"Because I know – knew – Prinz. He would have wanted to be there in person to lap up the glory when he exposed a senior officer as a fraud and a traitor. He wanted to accompany me on this trip to Berlin, and I believe he planned to do it in front of the big brass."  
Ruth took a deep breath and considered her response carefully. "But you can't be sure. Harry, you're staking your life, not to mention the outcome of the war, on your instinct."  
He looked at her sharply. "Then pray tell, what do you suggest I do? Send them a memo?"  
He was right, of course. The only way to find out what the Germans knew was to go to Berlin, and Harry Pearce would do his duty no matter what she said. Even the thought of certain death would probably not stop him. Despite her fear for him she had to admire that. _My honour is loyalty_. She conceded the argument with a dip of the head and lowered her eyes in an effort to hide her emotion from him, and he allowed her to do just that by changing the subject.  
"How is Malcolm?"

She lifted her head in surprise. "That's… quite a conversation shift," she exclaimed but he pressed on.  
"I recognised his handiwork in most of those toys you brought along – he's the best in the business; a technical wizard."  
Ruth smiled despite herself; perhaps he was right, perhaps it was time to move onto a lighter topic. "He speaks highly of you too." Her smile faded. "And he still misses you." She wanted to say a lot more on the subject but refrained, acutely aware that she might not see him again after tonight.  
But he read her thoughts all the same. "If I had told him, or anyone else for that matter, what I planned to do, I would have put him in an impossible position. We swear an oath of loyalty, and he would have been obliged to inform the Service bigwigs under the stipulations of that oath. I did not want him to have to choose between me and his oath."  
She processed that. "You didn't tell anybody?" she asked, still amazed at the audacity of it.  
He shook his head as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do, and perhaps to a seasoned spy it was. How would she know? She was only just starting out on her own path, and was still drawing her personal lines in the sand where the job was concerned. She had been willing, after all, to sleep with a German officer in the service of her country.

His voice brought her back from her ruminations. "And what about London?" He sounded wistful. "Has it been much damaged?"  
She considered. "Some parts," she conceded, "but there are bits that have been spared the worst." Smiling, she added, "The people have been wonderful. They are refusing to have their spirits dampened by the hardship. The Prime Minister deserves a lot of credit for that."  
Harry smiled proudly. "That's good."  
She watched him, wondering whether she could risk a more personal question. She needed to know, in case he did not return from Berlin. And of course, she _wanted_ to know even if he did return. She took a breath and plunged in. "Is there… someone that should be informed if something happened to you?"  
His gaze settled on her, at once challenging and tender. "You mean like a wife or a girlfriend?" he asked bluntly, and she felt herself blush. It annoyed her and she lifted her chin and met his eyes.  
"Yes."  
And there it was again, the attraction arcing between them at the drop of a hat. She could see his nostrils flare as he breathed deeply, also caught off guard at the speed with which the desire overwhelmed them.  
"No, Ruth, there is no-one that needs to be informed," he responded, and his voice had gone low and husky and shot straight to her core. She should look away; should get up and make some tea or go to the loo, anything to break this pressure building to intolerable levels. But she could not. She was caught in his spell, trapped willingly in his smouldering gaze. He was going to kiss her; she could see the exact moment he lost the fight to hang onto his self-control in a slight widening of his eyes, and she began to close her own in anticipation. And it was then, in the most inopportune of moments, that she remembered the children. She pulled back.

He followed her, swaying forward momentarily before his brain caught up with events and he recovered himself. He looked at her quizzically and her hands clutched together anxiously. Aware that she might be about to ruin any chance of intimacy with him, she warred with herself, but there was really no choice. She needed to know, needed to understand before there could be any more between them. Still, when she spoke her voice was soft and hesitant. "Harry… What happened with the two children? The ones who pick-pocketed Schellenberg?" And because she was watching him so closely, she saw the shutters come down again.

There was a long silence as he regarded her, weighing his response. "I shot them," he finally said, and the horror that flashed across her face went straight to his heart.  
Her eyes slid away from him. "Why?" she demanded, and he sighed and rubbed his forehead. There was so much sorrow, so much desolation in the gesture that her gaze went back to him.  
"I had no choice," he responded, and she waited but he said nothing more.  
"There are always choices," she responded and his head jerked up.  
"Really, Ruth? Always?"  
"You could have chosen _not_ to shoot them," she pressed, needing to know, wanting to understand.  
And finally his control slipped and he jumped up. "Do you have any idea what Mengele would have done to them?!" he exclaimed, voice rising momentarily in anguish, before he turned away from her and started pacing.  
She watched him in confusion. "No. Who is Mengele?"  
He stopped and turned back to her, searching her face intently. Whatever he saw there made his shoulders slump and he returned to his seat next to her. She waited, giving him time to order his thoughts.

When he began to speak, his voice was a monotone, carefully devoid of emotion. "Doctor Joseph Mengele works at the concentration camp in Auschwitz. He uses the Jewish prisoners as guinea pigs for his experiments. He is mostly interested in genetics, in finding ways to build and Aryan nation of blond, blue-eyed German superhumans without any genetic deficiencies. The plan, you see, is to get women to produce blond, blue-eyed twins to boost the Aryan population. And to achieve that, Mengele focuses his experiments on twins." Harry took a deep breath and pushed on. "We were once taken on a tour of his hospital at the camp." He faltered. "…I have never seen such agony, such horrific things inflicted by one human on another." His haunted eyes found hers. "There is a special wing for the children. He injects chemicals into their eyes to see if he can turn them blue. It causes excruciating pain and often blindness. He does spinal taps without anaesthesia, and sometimes this leaves the child paralysed." Harry's voice gathered pace, as though he had to get it all out, had to finally say it out loud. "In another experiment one twin is injected with a disease such as typhus or tuberculosis and when the child dies, the other is also killed so they can study the differences the disease caused between the two. And perhaps most horrific of all, Mengele does surgeries without anaesthesia. He removes organs, or castrates the boys, or amputates limbs. All whilst the child is fully awake." Harry closed his eyes and when he continued he sounded world-weary and infinitely sad. "My abiding memory of that place is the blood-curdling screams from children in unspeakable agony." He fell silent, spent and a million miles away, and she understood.  
"They were twins, weren't they?" she asked gently. "The children that pick-pocketed Schellenberg. They were Jewish twins."  
He nodded once, the weight of the world on his shoulders. "Yes."

Tears welled in her eyes as her mind filled with the horror images he had described. She knew, unequivocally, that those images were forever burned into the memory of the man before her, that he would never be rid of them for as long as he lived, and all her anger at him dissipated. She nodded slowly, swallowing against her own sorrow, and looked at him solemnly. "I understand," she said, feeling the need to assure him, to let him know that he still had her regard, and that he would take that, as well as her heart, with him to Berlin the next day. There would be no intimacy tonight, not after this discussion, and they were both secretly relieved. Neither wanted their first time together to be tainted by these horrors, and when he kissed her at the door, it was chaste and gentle. But it was also a promise. That he would do everything in his power to come back to her, to finish what they had started.  
"Ruth…" he began, and she thought he was going to declare his feelings out loud, but instead he said, "It may be a good idea for the Allies to let the Germans get their hands on a false plan. If the one they have now is the real one, another, different one could help to muddy the waters."  
She nodded, and with a last squeeze of her hand he turned away.

Ruth watched him walk from her, and wondered whether the timing would ever be right. She thought about the children, and about the corpse of Hans Prinz, and experienced a fleeting sense of intense doubt. Did people like them – spies who lived lives of deceit, often covered in blood, deserve happiness? Or was giving that up the price they had to pay for the terrible things they had to do to keep their countrymen safe? She did not know the answer, and she wasn't sure that she ever would. And one thing was becoming increasingly clear to her; Harry Pearce was an intelligence officer with every fibre of his being. It was in his blood – a vocation rather than a job. What kind of life would it be to be involved with someone like that? Would she always be a distant second behind his duty, or was he capable of a more balanced approach? She had the uncomfortable feeling that she already knew the answer, and that it was not the one she was hoping for.  
The dog whimpered at her feet and she stroked it. "He'll be back in a few days," she stated with more confidence than she felt. Perhaps, if she wished hard enough, it would make it so.

 _tbc_


	12. Chapter 12

**PART XII: Into the lion's den**

 _He always considered death an unavoidable professional hazard._

\- Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Chronicle of a Death Foretold

 _19 March 1944  
Paris, pre-dawn_

Zaf led Ruth into a small flat, and it was so dark she could hardly see. Once the door had closed behind her someone lit a candle, and in its weak light she identified Adam, Fiona and Jo. It was a huge risk for all of them to be together in one place, but Ruth believed it was necessary. Once Harry had left the previous night, she had gone down to the café and knocked on the door of the storeroom, where she knew the young Punjabi slept at night. He had opened immediately, eyes bright and alert, and she had requested an urgent meeting to be set up for the next morning. He had not argued; had merely nodded with one of his cheerful smiles, and here they were now.

Adam must have sensed her urgency because he did not waste any time on pleasantries. "What's happened?" he asked, and she could detect the suppressed fear in his voice. Fear that he had made the wrong call to trust her judgement on Herman Peters.  
So she started with a bombshell. "Herman Peters is not a German. He is, in fact, an undercover British intelligence officer." She couldn't help the smile that blossomed on her face at their shocked expressions. "Herman Peters' real name is Harry Pearce."

She briefly related the developments of the last twenty-four hours and when she had finished, Adam smiled in rueful admiration. "Sly old fox," he murmured before elaborating for her convenience, "I know Harry. He used to be my boss."  
But there was no time for reminiscence, for swapping stories of the old days. Ruth knew this, no matter how dearly she would have liked to know more about Harry before he had become Herman Peters, so she pressed on. "Harry's going to Berlin today, to try and confuse matters if the Germans did get their hands on the real Invasion Plan."  
The atmosphere in the room sobered instantly, and she could see the same fear she felt for his well-being in the faces before her. "And he needs our help. He said it would be useful if another plan was to surface – a false one that showed the landings will take place at Calais."  
When Adam smiled, she looked at him questioningly.  
"Actually, Ruth, we're ahead of the game for once."

0o0

Harry looked out the window as the plane broke through the clouds and revealed Berlin spread out below him. He was shocked – there was a lot more damage than when he had left. Smoke still curled up in places from the previous night's Allied bombing, and ruined buildings were visible on nearly every street. The people down there were his enemy, and yet he couldn't help to feel some sympathy for the normal folk who were just trying to survive. Whose only mistake had been to listen to the ravings of a lunatic and to allow him to set the world on fire. It had been a risk – flying rather than taking the train, but Schellenberg had been impatient to see him. He couldn't help but wonder whether Prinz had exposed him after all, and that this was the reason why Schellenberg was so anxious to get him to Berlin. _Well_. There was nothing he could do about that now. He would play the game until the bitter end and for as long as he had a breath left in his body; he would not rest until Hitler and his ilk had been defeated. In a rare moment of self-awareness, he wondered when it had become so personal to him. He was a soldier by training; he understood that wars happened and that the man in the opposite trench was just doing his job, like the soldiers in the English trench were. He did not normally feel such consuming hatred for the opponent. It was not professional; any overbearing emotion was dangerous and only led to errors in judgement. But he could not help it. Having seen first-hand the horrors being perpetrated in the concentration camps, he hated them. He was careful to reserve these feelings for the people really responsible, though. The ones who made the decisions and who implemented it. Hitler. Mengele. The SS leadership. He wanted them destroyed, and if he had to sacrifice himself in the process, then so be it.

But. _Ruth_ … He squashed the thought quickly. He could not afford to think about her now, to ponder how desperately he wanted to get back to Paris and make love to her. Thousands of Allied soldiers were about to hurl themselves at the coastal defences of the Germans, and he had no right to put his own desires first. Many of them would sacrifice their lives – the least he could do in turn was to sacrifice his libido. The plane touched down and he shifted his focus to the building awaiting them at the end of the runway. There were a number of armed soldiers standing around outside it and his heart rate sped up. Was this normal procedure, or were they his welcoming committee? There was no time to dwell on it; the plane came to a halt and he took a breath, squared his shoulders and grabbed his duffel bag. _I am Standartenführer Herman Peters, and I am not afraid._ As soon as he stepped through the door, he paused to light a cigarette.

0o0

 _Same time  
C'est la Vie café, Paris_

Ruth circled the tables and smiled at the customers, but her mind was elsewhere. Harry should have arrived in Berlin by now, and fear for him clutched at her heart. She wished there was something she could do to help; she did not like feeling powerless. And it was only exacerbated by the fact that she had no idea what was going on. If he did not return, she would never know whether it was because he was dead, or imprisoned, or because his superiors had decided that he would be of more value in Berlin. She liked to think that he would at least try to get a message to her if it was the latter option, but there was no guarantee that it would reach her. All she could do was wait, and hope.

Or perhaps not.

Her gaze went to the best table in the house, where the three remaining SS officers were installed. Wouter Stegen, Helmut Voss, and Jurgen Setzer. She suppressed a shudder; she was not quite as skilled as Harry in compartmentalising, and she vividly remembered Setzer's role in the previous day's events. He had delivered her to Hans Prinz like a lamb to slaughter; without blinking and without remorse. She did not want to go anywhere near him, did not want to speak to him, but if she was to help Harry in any way she had no choice. She took a deep breath and approached the table. Setzer looked up in wary surprise as she came to a halt next to him.  
"I would like to express my condolences about the death of your colleague, _Hauptsturmführer_." She could not bring herself to utter Prinz's name.  
Setzer searched her face, unsure of her intent. "Thank you, _mademoiselle_. Yes. A tragedy. Such a promising officer," he probed, and she nodded sympathetically.  
"Indeed. Herman is devastated. All he could talk about last night was taking revenge on the Resistance," she claimed, sounding for all the world like she meant it. Setzer stared at her uncertainly, and her heart leapt. She had succeeded in sowing some doubt, and it made her feel a lot better. She had at least done something, and as she walked away she could feel Setzer's speculative gaze on her back.

She waited until the kitchen door had swung closed behind her before she relaxed. Setzer gave her the creeps, and she somehow felt like she needed a cleansing bath every time she'd had contact with him. Was it like this for Harry every day? Did he look around at some of the men he lived cheek to jowl with and shuddered? Then again, that was the lot of an undercover officer, and such an experienced man as Harry would know that. She suspected he simply lit a cigarette and shrugged it off as he slipped into the skin of Herman Peters, a man who had not shot those children to spare them the torture of Doctor Mengele, but simply because they had had the gall to steal from a German officer. Ruth shook her head; she secretly worried that one lost a part of oneself every time you told a lie – pretended to be someone else – and that at some stage you would no longer really know who you were. Every morning she looked herself in the eye in the mirror and tested whether she could still find Ruth in there, and her greatest fear was that she would one day do so and find only Rosa. Had this happened to Harry? Did he look in the mirror and see only Herman? And if so, was it possible for him to find himself again? She would do everything in her power to hep him, because of one thing she was now sure – she wanted to know the true Harry Pearce.

She lifted her head and saw young Zaf watching her from across the kitchen. Scarlet was curled at his feet, waiting for Ruth to take her home again. Zaf smiled and lifted his hand in a wordless greeting, and as he did so she got a glimpse of the butt of a handgun stuck into his belt. He had been around all day, which was unusual, and she got the feeling that he was keeping her in sight as much as possible. He had obviously been instructed to protect her, and the thought warmed her. It was a reminder that she was not alone. All these people – Francois, Zaf, Harry, as well as Adam, Jo and Fiona, were risking their lives for their country, and were doing it without complaint. The least she could do was follow suit. So she smiled back at Zaf, squared her shoulders and pushed back through the door. Back into the presence of Jurgen Setzer.

0o0

 _Berlin_

The soldiers were not there to arrest him. They were simply waiting for their transport to the front. Instead there was one junior SS officer awaiting him, who ushered him reverently towards the waiting car.  
" _Oberführer_ Schellenberg requests that you come straight to his office," the young man informed him apologetically and Harry nodded, not sure whether this was a good or a bad sign. He leaned back in his seat and gazed out the window as the car weaved through the rubble-strewn streets. This city had been his home for eight years and yet he felt no sense of belonging. It would forever be linked to the Nazis in his mind, be tainted by their evil deeds. And it would always hold danger; the threat of exposure, of imprisonment and death. It had been beautiful once, bustling and charged with energy, its people confident in their _Führer_ and their destiny as a great nation. He saw little of that now in the gaunt faces of the few people moving about. The hardship of war had bit here too. _When the elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers._ How true that old Kikuyu proverb was.

The car pulled up in front of the SS headquarters and Harry stepped out with a curt nod at the driver. He paused to light a new cigarette, taking the time to covertly scan his surroundings. If Schellenberg had laid a trap for him, there would be signs. Big burly men loitering across the street, faces watching for his arrival from the windows above, a van parked in the courtyard to whisk him away. He saw nothing. Yet another young, blond SS officer stepped forward to take his grip from him, and trailed after him as he strode into the foyer and headed up the stairs. Schellenberg had a vast office on the second floor, and he answered promptly to Harry's knock. As Harry entered the blond giant did the same closely behind him, and Harry turned to watch his face and hands. _Nothing_. He merely deposited the grip inside the door, saluted and left. Harry let out a long breath, masking it as an exhalation of smoke, and turned towards his commanding officer.

Walter Schellenberg sat back in his chair and observed the new arrival keenly, and Harry smiled fleetingly. He did not salute – Herman Peters and Schellenberg dispensed with such formalities in private. "How are things, Walter?"  
Schellenberg did not return the smile or the greeting. "You tell me, Herman. Why is one of my most promising officers in Paris dead?"  
Harry's heart rate sped up. Had Prinz informed Berlin what he had discovered? Or was it Setzer who had planted a tiny seed of doubt, to be cultivated at the time of his choosing? He was inclined to put his money on the latter. _Time to gamble_. He stabbed out his cigarette in Schellenberg's ashtray in an irritated gesture. "Because he was an over-ambitious idiot who would not listen to reason. Or orders, for that matter." He met the other man's gaze squarely. "I told him to wait for reinforcements, but he wanted the glory for himself."  
Schellenberg did not blink. One did not get to his position if you were easily intimidated. "That's not what Jurgen Setzer says," he stated, and Harry snorted. _Show no weakness_. "Setzer? My God, Walter, please tell me you did not bring me back to Berlin to discuss the delusional ravings of that little piss-ant."  
The senior officer relaxed, and Harry knew his gamble had paid off. Schellenberg was a good intelligence officer, but he did not possess the cunning that Harry did. And because he did not, he found it difficult to conceive this quality in others. He did not believe that Herman Peters had the ability to lie to his face without giving himself away. And that was the weakness that Harry planned to exploit to misdirect the Germans about the Allied Invasion Plan.

Schellenberg sat forward. "Setzer claimed you and Prinz were rivals for the same girl, and that you may have had something to do with his death," he confided as he moved the ashtray a bit closer to his second in command. The gesture was guileless and betrayed his confidence in the man before him. "I had my doubts about his claims – you are not the type of man to lose your head over a woman – but I had to check. You understand, of course." It was a statement, not a question, and Harry nodded. The Nazi party was built on a culture of control and violence - you toed the line or you faced the consequences, and they all accepted this without question. One thing was becoming increasingly clear, however; he would have to take care of Setzer. The man was a threat, and would expose him at the first opportunity. But now it was time to redirect the conversation.

"So you got hold of the Allied Invasion Plan?" he queried, and Schellenberg sobered.  
"We got hold of _a_ plan," he said slowly, reaching into one of his drawers. "I'm not so sure whether it is the real one," he confessed as he removed a thick folder and laid it on the desk in front of him.  
Harry inclined his head sympathetically. "Where did you get it?" he asked, hoping to ascertain whether there was a leak that had to be plugged.  
"One of our agents stole it from the British ambassador in Ankara." Schellenberg looked at him. "It was left lying openly in the man's office," he explained, and the disbelief was clear in his voice. If it was the real plan, it was a staggering act of carelessness by the ambassador, and Schellenberg obviously found it difficult to believe that a high level government official could display such incompetence. This German generation was conditioned to trust in their leaders so completely that any thought of incompetence among them amounted to treason. Harry had no such illusions. He had a dim view of politicians and career diplomats in general, and the British ones were not excluded from that. He'd had to clear up the messes they created too many times for it to be otherwise.  
"So you think it's a plant," he observed as he held out his hand for the folder.  
Schellenberg handed it over. "I'm leaning that way, yes. But I would like a second opinion before I take it to the _Führer_." Or in other words, he would like someone to blame if they got it wrong, Harry thought cynically.  
"I'm honoured," he murmured, deliberately stroking Schellenberg's ego in an effort to keep him onside and oblivious. He opened the folder with some trepidation, and only needed one glance at the map lying on top to know that his worst fear had become true.

It was the real Invasion Plan.

 _tbc_


	13. Chapter 13

**PART XIII: Smoke and mirrors**

 _All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when we are able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must appear inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near._

\- Sun Tzu, The Art of War

 _19 March 1944  
Berlin_

Harry felt cold all over, and then sweat began running down his spine. This was it – the war could be won or lost right here, and he could not let Schellenberg pick up on his agitation. His hand was steady as he picked up the map to study it more closely, acutely aware of the German's focus on him. The map indicated the landing sites for the Allied invasion in Normandy, just as Ruth had said, and he couldn't help but flash back to his trip down the coast a few days earlier. They might just have a chance – just – if the Germans didn't move the greater bulk of the troops around Calais down to the south before June. He would have to give the performance of his life to prevent that from happening. Carefully, he schooled his features into an expression of surprise. "They're targeting Normandy?" he asked incredulously. "That would make the Channel crossing almost four times as long for the troops."  
Schellenberg nodded, then smiled slyly. Obviously he had decided to play devil's advocate. "But it would have the element of surprise. And our defences are weaker down there."  
Harry shook his head impatiently. "Those advantages are heavily outweighed by the disadvantages," he stated, drawing on every ounce of experience he'd picked up on the working of the German military mind. Operations must be executed with speed, precision and overwhelming numbers. _Blitzkrieg_.

The _Oberführer_ lifted an eyebrow, but Harry did not miss the glint of validation in his eye. It seemed he was saying exactly what Schellenberg wanted to hear, so he pushed on. "For one thing, there isn't a harbour at any of these indicated landing sites. How are they going to get thousands of troops from the ships to the beach quickly enough to worry us? Are they going to row them to shore in dinghies eight or ten at a time? Even our weaker defences will be able to pick them off. They'll be sitting ducks." He was gathering momentum. _I am Standartenführer Herman Peters, and I believe the Allied Invasion will take place at Calais. Now convince your superior with cold, hard reason_. "Seriously, Walter," he said, looking at the other man, "it would be folly. It would take days to get enough troops to shore that way to worry us. And because there's no harbour, they won't be able to get supplies to them. Even if they could establish a beach-head, they won't be able to hold it. The soldiers will run out of ammunition and food."  
"They could airlift supplies to them," Schellenberg argued, but Harry looked dubious. "Only if they get far enough inland to neutralise our anti-aircraft positions, and that's unlikely."  
"So you doubt the veracity of this information," Schellenberg stated, and Harry shrugged.  
"Well. Purely from a military point of view. It is not the optimal strategy to achieve success." He flicked through the pages of the report. "Perhaps it is one of a number of strategies they are considering, but I would be very surprised if this was the one they chose to go with in the end."  
The senior officer's eyes narrowed slightly. "You are working from the premise, of course, that the Allied Forces are led by competent strategists."

And there it was, the most dangerous moment of this whole conversation. Harry knew that he could wreck everything he had achieved if he showed too much respect for the abilities of the enemy. No German officer would dare to do so, and this arrogance had already cost Germany dear in the war. He took his time, weighing his words carefully. "I would rather err on the side of caution than underestimate them in this case," he responded, keeping eye contact with his superior all the time to convey his sincerity. "After all, look what happened at Stalingrad. We underestimated the Russians and overreached ourselves, and we are paying the price for it." A cloud flitted across Schellenberg's features and Harry pressed his advantage. "The Allied military strategists may not be the equal of our own, but they would be committing the exact same error if they tried an invasion in Normandy. It is pure madness." He took a beat, then added carefully, "And I think we would be amiss if we did not acknowledge that they showed themselves not to be totally inept in North Africa."

A long silence settled on the room as both men contemplated the discussion. Harry barely dared breathe; had he overplayed his hand? His attention stayed on the German, observing every minute shift in expression, and as he did so he considered the vagaries of the profession he had chosen. The man in front of him was his enemy, and yet it was hard not to like him. He was urbane and intelligent, and lacked the nasty streak some of the other SS officers displayed. Walter Schellenberg simply followed orders. In that sense he was an excellent officer and an excellent member of the Nazi party. But Harry had always believed that senior officers had the obligation to question the morality of the orders they received. The damage created by any morally questionable actions had to be weighed against the greater good of the country, and was only to be implemented if the balance came out on the positive side. And no gain could justify the extermination of the whole Jewish race. Eventually Schellenberg sighed and his shoulders slumped. "You're right, of course," he said, and Harry's heart leapt. But then the other man added, "It will be difficult to convince Rommel, though."

0o0

They walked. Schellenberg had felt the sudden urge to get fresh air, and Harry thought that was probably wise. The walls could have ears, and any discussion that included their most decorated general was best held away from prying listening devices. He looked around him with interest. Some sections of Berlin had been reduced to rubble, whilst others seemed remarkably intact. The similarity with how Ruth had described London was striking.  
"They have started to do bombing raids in broad daylight," Schellenberg said next to him, dragging Harry's thoughts back to the present. _Stop thinking about Ruth and London. I am Standartenführer Herman Peters, and I am shocked by the destruction of my capital._  
He glanced at his companion. "So they're getting bolder. More confident." He paused. "That's not good."  
"No," Schellenberg agreed with a sigh. "Rommel says we are going to lose the war."  
Harry looked at him in surprise. "He said that? To the _Führer_ 's face?"  
Schellenberg laughed, a short bark of derision. "He doesn't have a death wish. No, he said it at an informal gathering Himmler organised to welcome him back to Berlin. Last night. The _Führer_ wasn't there."

They had reached the main square and slowly walked around the perimeter. Silence reigned as Harry pondered this titbit of information. An informal gathering held by Himmler. Could it have been the men involved in the plot to assassinate Hitler? He thought it very probable; Rommel would only have made such a provocative statement if he'd thought he was in like-minded company. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel was probably the German Harry respected most out of all the officers and Nazi party members he had met during his eight years in their midst. A brilliant military strategist, he held off the Allied Forces in North Africa for much longer than Harry had expected in light of the re-supply problems the Germans experienced. But he was not a political animal – he did not curry favour with Hitler like most of the other senior military officers did. And he had committed the cardinal sin: he had dared to disagree with the _Führer_ 's military strategies during the last few years of the war. Also, perhaps more significantly, he had openly criticised the _Reich_ 's treatment of the Jews, and Harry knew from personal experience that Rommel did not carry out the _Führer_ 's orders to round up the Jews in France. He left it to others – to people like Herman Peters, who in turn had left it to Prinz, Stegen and Voss. These actions had strained the once close relationship between Hitler and Rommel to the extent that the general had agreed to lend his support to the assassination plot. But he was still the officer responsible for marshalling the German defences in France against any possible invasion. Because of that, it was critical to ensure that he did not get a free hand in the distribution of the troops along the coast. As much as he disliked it, Harry would have to do his utmost to discredit the man's opinion.

Perhaps he had been quiet too long, because Schellenberg looked at him calculatingly. "Can I trust you, Herman?" he asked, and Harry had to call on all his years of experience not to show his shock at the question. His step never faltered, and he concentrated hard on not making any physical movement. He knew that most people had a "tell" when they became nervous – they drummed their fingers, jiggled their leg, or touched their face. He was wont to wipe sweat from his upper lip, and he made a conscious effort not to do so then, acutely aware of the _Oberführer'_ s scrutiny.  
"Of course," he responded, allowing a touch of indignance to seep into his voice. "Why do you ask?"  
The German's eyes stayed on him for a few seconds more and then slid away to survey their surroundings, and Harry realised he was checking whether they were being followed. He himself had been doing so ever since they had left the office, and by now he was sure they were clean. There were no tails. Schellenberg must have come to the same conclusion because he continued in a low voice. "There is something in the wind. In the party. And there is a lot of mistrust."  
Harry lifted an eyebrow. "I was in Paris," he pointed out, and the other man smiled in acknowledgement. There was relief in that smile.  
"Quite right," he said and then turned to his companion. "But I want you to know that I believe I could trust you even if you had been here in Berlin the whole time."  
Harry stared at him, stunned into silence. It was the validation of eight years of hard work; of lying, spying and betraying the people whose trust he had won. And for the pieces of his soul he had to sell along the way – the two children he had shot, the thousands of Jews he had failed to save. "I'm honoured, _mein Oberführer_ ," he murmured respectfully, careful not to let even a sliver of his elation shine through.  
Schellenberg nodded, and dropped his voice even lower. "So completely off the record – what is your opinion on our chances of victory?"

Harry's joy evaporated immediately. Had it all been a trap? An elaborate snare to get him to incriminate himself along with Rommel? His eyes travelled over the form of his companion discreetly, trying to ascertain whether he was wearing a wire. Were there men somewhere, crouched over a receiver, to record his treachery for posterity? His gaze lifted back to Schellenberg's face, to his eyes. _Think, Harry. You have spent so much time in this man's company the last eight years, you know his tells._ He thought about the times he had seen the man lie to others, and it came to him. The way the eyes slid away from the subject, down and to the left. The right hand tapping lightly against the leg. The slight sway of the body backwards and away. He saw none of these. To buy time, he searched his pockets for the pack of cigarettes and lit one. "I think Field Marshal Rommel is correct," he replied, also keeping his voice low. "We lost the war when we failed to take Stalingrad," he continued, "and if the Allied forces succeed in getting a foothold in Europe we will be finished."  
The _Oberführer_ stared into the distance gloomily. "I see. So the coast of France will be our last stand, then?"  
"In my opinion, yes."  
"That is also what Rommel says," the German continued thoughtfully, and Harry did not respond. He would have to tread lightly now. Let Schellenberg get where he wanted him to be on his own steam, with only a few nudges here and there. He needed to be convinced that he had formed his own opinion; he had to be totally unaware that it had been fed to him for this to work.  
"This… thing in the wind you mentioned," Harry probed carefully, "is it serious?"  
"Very." Schellenberg glanced at him. "A matter of life and death, you might say."

So the _Oberführer_ knew about the assassination plot. That was interesting, as Harry was not aware that any action had yet been taken against the conspirators. Himmler was obviously hedging his bets – Harry knew that the Head of the SS had been approached as a possible replacement for Hitler, should the assassination succeed. But apparently he was also making sure that he could show that the SS _Sicherheitsdienst_ had looked into the matter, should it fail. And Harry would try to use that to his advantage.  
"And… is Field Marshal Rommel in any way involved?" he asked softly, and the other man nodded wordlessly.  
" _Mein Gott_ ," Harry murmured incredulously. "The Desert Fox himself, our greatest war hero, involved in a treasonous plot. I can't believe it."  
"He's not the only one," Schellenberg offered, emboldened by his companion's apparent struggle to compute the information. "This goes far and deep into the party and the military."  
"What are we going to do?" Harry asked, and Schellenberg looked away. "If you arrest Rommel, it will cause an uproar," he pressed mercilessly, trying to paint the German into a corner. "Especially at this crucial stage of the war."  
"You think I don't know that?" the other man snapped, the strain clear on his face. "You think _Himmler_ doesn't know that?"  
His discomfort was music to Harry's ears. "Forgive me," he murmured contritely. "Of course you don't need me to point out the obvious."  
"No I don't," the _Oberführer_ continued, only somewhat mollified by the apology. "But there is a deeper problem here – if Rommel could be involved in such a treacherous act, would he also go so far as to lead us astray about the Allied Invasion?"  
 _Steady, now_. "What, you mean by trying to convince us that this plan we obtained is the real one, when in truth he knows it is not?" he exclaimed in astonishment, aware of the importance of this particular moment in time. He was so close to pulling it off, he could taste it in the air.  
Schellenberg turned and looked at him long and hard. "Yes, Herman. That is exactly what I mean."

Harry took his time to mull things over. A man who was seemingly so unnerved by the information as Herman Peters, would not come up with an answer immediately. He finished the cigarette and flicked the butt away, and Schellenberg's eyes followed the glowing arc into the gutter. Carefully the English spy said, "I fear you may be right, _mein Oberführer_ ," and Schellenberg closed his eyes wearily. "This business with the Jews," Harry continued almost apologetically, "is a mistake in Rommel's eyes. He thinks, because of it, the Allied Forces will not allow us any self-governance once we lose the war. They will completely destroy us. There will be nothing left of the Third _Reich_ by the time this ends. He believes that the only way to save a shred of the _Reich_ is to get rid of the _Führer_ and to persuade Churchill and the rest that not all Germans are responsible for this abomination. That way, they might show us mercy."  
The German smiled sadly, and Harry tilted his head curiously, aware that the tiniest of cracks might be appearing in his companion's devotion to blind duty. It was time to deliver the _coup de grace_.  
"But I think we can still salvage something," he said urgently. "If we can rebuff the Invasion, we can hold onto what we have in Europe. We would still have to appease the world about the Jews, but there will be time for that later." He was going for the jackpot; he wanted the German to oppose Rommel on the reality of the stolen Invasion Plan, but to allow the assassination plot to continue. It was a gamble, but the reward of success was incalculable. He waited for the German's reaction with baited breath.  
Schellenberg nodded slowly. "So we have to convince the _Führer_ that his best Field Marshal is wrong about the plan we obtained." He squared his shoulders determinedly and looked at his trusted right hand man. "And you will help me do it. There is a war council with the _Führer_ in two days' time, and you will go with me."

0o0

 _Late night  
Just south of Pas de Calais harbour_

The German patrol was on their second sweep of the beach when one of them noticed the dark shape in the surf. He shouted a warning and trained his rifle on it, but it was no threat. It rolled slowly to and fro with the motion of the waves, but other than that it did not move. Whatever it was, it was clearly dead. Two men waded into the water and pulled it out, and when they eventually got it onto the sand and flipped it over, it was a man. A dead man with a British uniform in a bag strapped to his stomach. And when they searched his pockets, they found a bundle of papers carefully wrapped in plastic.

 _tbc_


	14. Chapter 14

**PART XIV: The** _ **Führer**_ **, the Field Marshal and the English Fox**

 _The issue is now quite clear. It is between light and darkness and every one must choose his side._

\- G.K. Chesterton

 _22 March 1944  
Berlin, early morning_

 _He was almost there, but he couldn't let go. Not yet. He wanted to take her with him; wanted to maker her soar, to experience la petite mort and to cry out his name in ecstasy. These were lofty goals, but he had always been an ambitious man. And a stubborn one – once he had set his mind upon a particular goal, he single-mindedly pursued it. So he strained harder, buried himself deeper, until she arched her back and pressed herself against him, increasing the friction. That delicious, pleasure-inducing friction that made one's nerves tingle and your blood burn with desire for more. He found a breast with one hand; the nipple was hard as a pebble and, he knew from experience, achingly sensitive. So he rubbed the pad of his thumb over it, mimicking the fast, hard rhythm with which he was plunging into her. She gasped. He glanced at her face and nearly lost control. Her head was thrown back, exposing the delicate white skin of her throat to him, and her face was flushed and glowing with pre-orgasmic bliss. He pressed down a little harder with his thumb, and she fell. Her muscles constricted around his shaft and he surrendered to the pleasure, and let go-_

He woke with a start, panting and covered in sweat, and achingly aroused.  
" _Scheisse_ ," he muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes. Concentrating on his breathing until it became more regular, he tried not to think about her. _I am Standartenführer Herman Peters, and I am here in Berlin to persuade everyone that the Allied Invasion will take place at Calais, not Normandy_. But no matter how many times he repeated the mantra, she kept intruding on his thoughts. So he gave up and let her come. How easily she invaded his mind, took over his consciousness. He closed his eyes again and she flitted across his eyelids like a movie. Her bright smile, those beautiful eyes, the soft dark hair framing the face. Her bubbling enthusiasm, her sense of duty, the fierce intelligence. Her youth and innocence. Christ, he was smitten. And that was dangerous, especially on a day like today, when he would have to be on top form in order to protect his beloved realm. To do his duty. It came to him that for the first time in his life there was someone that he would consider putting before duty. He had seen officers and soldiers throw away everything they believed in for a woman, and had always supposed himself to be above that. But now he was no longer sure, and he hadn't even slept with her yet.  
" _Scheisse_ ," he muttered again, bewildered and amazed that he was capable of such passion. None of this was helping lessen his arousal any and he contemplated whether he should get up and take care of it, knowing it would be her he thought of as he did so, or whether he should try and think of something else until it went away. He chose the latter, knowing that the former would leave him dissatisfied and longing for the real version, and determinedly directed his thoughts to the day that lay ahead.

He had attended one or two of these war councils before, but never got to say anything. He had always been the gofer – the runner that had to do Himmler and Schellenberg's bidding. That usually meant phoning back to the _Sicherheitsdienst_ offices for additional information or to relay urgent orders emanating from the discussions. He didn't know whether today would be more of the same. Schellenberg would test the waters first, he suspected. If things looked favourable – for instance if it became clear that Hitler also believed the Allied Invasion would take place at Calais, the SS man would do the talking himself. However, if it looked like Rommel might sway the _Führer_ towards accepting the landings in Normandy, he was more likely to throw his subordinate under the bus. Either way, Harry would be ready. He got up and dressed carefully. There was not one wrinkle in his uniform, and every button glinted fiercely in the early morning sunlight. Once satisfied that his appearance was immaculate, he pulled his shoulders back and looked his mirror image in the eye. _I am Standartenführer Herman Peters, and I take pride in my country, my party and the SS. I am not afraid_. Then he walked out the door and into battle.

0o0

 _Paris  
Café C'est la Vie_

Ruth was jittery. Harry had been gone three days, and she wondered how he was. Was he still free, being Herman Peters and influencing events to the advantage of Britain? Or had he been arrested and was being tortured at that very moment? Was he dead already – shot or hanged as a traitor and his body dumped ignominiously in an unmarked grave somewhere? No. She refused to entertain that possibility. A man like Harry, so impressive and assured, could surely not be wiped from existence that easily. She would have known somehow. Besides, Setzer and the other two SS officers had been in the café every day, and she had eavesdropped on their German conversations as she served them. There had been no mention of any upheaval within the SS, and the unmasking of such a senior officer as a traitor would certainly have caused one. No, she chose to believe that he was fine.

At that moment two SS officers entered and Ruth looked up quickly. Stegen and Voss. She moved across to them. "Good morning. Your usual table?"  
They nodded and she led them across to the large table in the middle of the floor.  
"Coffee, gentlemen?" she inquired, and once again they answered in the affirmative. She began to turn away, then hesitated. "Will _Herr_ Setzer be joining you?" she asked innocently. "Should I bring three coffees?"  
It was Voss who answered. "No. He had to go to Berlin urgently," he said, and her heart plummeted. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to let them see her panic. She kept her smile in place until she had turned her back to them, even though she wanted to cry. She was convinced that the junior officer was on his way to unmask Herman Peters in front of his superiors, as Harry believed Prinz had wanted to do.

 _Oh God, Harry_. He would never see it coming. She barely made it through the kitchen door before tears began to well up, and didn't even notice that Zaf was waiting for her.  
"We have confirmation that they discovered our body," he began without preamble before he noticed her distress. "What's wrong?" he asked, concern written across his expressive young face.  
It took Ruth a moment to process his words. "What did you say?"  
"I asked what's wrong-"  
"No, no, before that," she interrupted impatiently.  
Zaf cocked his head. "We've received confirmation the Germans have discovered the body we planted, with the fake Invasion Plan," he repeated, and the pressure on her chest eased. Could _that_ be the reason why Setzer had gone to Berlin? Could he, in essence, become the vessel that ensured Britain's – and by extension Harry's – survival? Oh, what sweet irony that would be.  
She smiled. "Nothing's wrong. Just me being a silly old mule. I've just learnt that Jurgen Setzer has left for Berlin, so with any luck he's taking those papers with him."  
The young man nodded and smiled back, but the dark eyes watched her knowingly. They had all seen how much Harry meant to her during that early morning meeting; she was not nearly as adept as they all were at hiding her feelings. Not nearly as well-schooled in the spying business, and she would do well to remember that. Lest she cost any of them their lives.

0o0

 _Berlin_

Harry waited for Schellenberg at the entrance of the _Führer_ 's elaborate bunker complex, idly tapping the leather gloves in his left hand against his leg. It had been cold earlier, but the day was warming up nicely now that the sun had climbed above the horizon. Spring was coming, but this year it would bring death and destruction rather than renewed life. He knew that; no matter how successful he was today, the Allied Invasion would cost many lives on both sides. He only hoped it would be higher on the German side. At least he could try to ensure that. A car pulled up and deposited a tall, thin figure that strode towards him. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. Harry straightened and saluted, and the General touched the rim of his cap briefly in response. He regarded the SS officer with piercing eyes and a cynical smile curled his lips. "Hullo, Peters. What are you doing here?"  
Harry did not return the smile. Rommel was a perceptive bugger; it was best to play a straight hand with him. " _Oberführer_ Schellenberg requested my presence, Field Marshal. To assist with the interpretation of our latest intelligence."  
The smile widened. "Ah," Rommel said, and a touch of bitterness seeped into his voice. "So you've come to help bury me."  
 _He knew_ , Harry realised. He knew that they would dispute the veracity of the obtained Invasion Plan. "No," he responded, meeting the piercing eyes evenly, "I've come to save the country I swore to protect with my life."

Rommel stared at him, taken aback. By this time the Nazi leadership was riddled with infighting and mistrust, and he had not expected an answer that did not include any sort of self-promotion. But there was no doubting Peters' sincerity, and an air of melancholy settled briefly on the decorated soldier. "Then you are one of very few, my friend," he said softly before turning away.  
Harry saw his chance. "At least I am joined by our most accomplished General," he murmured quickly and Rommel froze. The piercing eyes returned to him, hooded and wary, and Harry pushed on. "The Final Solution against the Jews is a mistake."  
Rommel's eyes widened and he shook his head warningly. Few, if any, ever dared criticise it out loud but Harry would not be deterred. "It is also reprehensible and unforgivable, and the rest of the world will make us pay for it."  
"Careful now, _Standartenführer_ ," Rommel warned, glancing around to ensure no one else was in earshot, "I could have you court-martialled for treason for saying such things."  
"That would be rather hypocritical, wouldn't it?" Harry retorted tartly, and the General looked at him sharply. "You don't agree with it either."  
There was a silence as Rommel began to back away. "You're trying to trick me into incriminating myself," he hissed accusingly. "I am not quite as foolish as that."  
But Harry shook his head. "No, Field Marshal. That is the last thing I want you to do. I don't want you to say anything. All I want is for you to remember this conversation once we are in there with the _Führer_. It is time for the madness to end," he added, quietly imploring the German to understand. Rommel did not respond, merely continued to back away, before swinging on his heel and striding inside. Harry sighed, uncertain whether his gamble had paid off, and reached for his cigarettes.

0o0

The war council had been in session for an hour, and the news was not good for Germany. They were being pushed back on the eastern front, and Harry marvelled again at the sheer stupidity of the attack on Russia. Had they not done so and instead focussed all efforts on securing their hold on Europe, things would have been very different. If the full might of the German war machine could be used to shore up the Atlantic Wall, the Allied Forces would have no hope of establishing a beach-head. But thankfully for Britain and its allies, Hitler had proven no different from other dictators throughout history – he had become overconfident and overambitious, and had overreached. And soon, hopefully, the Allied Forces would make him pay for that.

Harry and Schellenberg stood back against the wall, whilst the German senior command clustered around the large table in the centre of the room on which the maps were spread out that indicated the positions of the various forces engaged in this war. He focussed on the _Führer_ , who was stalking around the table and animatedly pointing at various locations on the map, exhorting his military commanders to greater effort. Hitler was one of the shortest men in the room, and yet his hold over these accomplished military men was something to behold. They deferred to him, allowed him to shout at and belittle them in front of their peers, and dared not contradict his military decisions. Harry still could not fathom it. He had tried throughout his eight years in their midst to put his finger on the source of the power this man had over a whole nation, but had failed. Yes, he had the gift of the gab, but so did Winston Churchill, and Harry was willing to bet everything he had that the British military commanders did not bow and scrape before their Prime Minister to this extent. There would be a healthy respect for the chain of command, but they would not hesitate to challenge decisions they did not agree with. Perhaps it had something to do with the German mentality – the love of order and precision, the respect for rules. Whatever it was, the _Führer_ remained the absolute power and sole director of the war effort.

Today he looked pale; the eyes were unnaturally bright and sweat was gathering at his temples, and Harry wondered whether he was sick or whether the pressure of the war was getting to him. At times his voice rose almost hysterically as he reprimanded his generals for the setbacks, taking none of the blame himself. Harry shifted his attention to Rommel, who in contrast to his once beloved _Führer_ stood stock-still next to the table, his eyes unwaveringly on the ever-shrinking territory that the German forces controlled. He must have known the folly of the Russian offensive, probably even advised against it, all to no effect. Rommel had proven to have an independent streak – to be willing to countermand orders he deemed wrong, and to such a man it must be particularly galling when his sound advice was ignored. What this independent streak had also done, of course, was to erode the almost blind trust Hitler had once had in his best General, and Harry hoped to exploit that today. The discussion moved to the western front and he steeled himself; it would be their turn soon.

A messenger slipped into the room and made for Schellenberg, and Harry watched with interest as he slipped the _Oberführer_ a hand-written note. Schellenberg read it and his eyebrows rose before he handed it to Harry. "Deal with it," he ordered softly before returning his attention to the discussion at the table. The note read: _Intelligence obtained Allied Invasion. Urgent. Hauptsturmführer Jurgen Setzer_. Perturbed, he edged towards the door. Had German agents obtained yet another copy of the Invasion Plan? That would be calamitous, and would scupper any chance he had of persuading them that the information was false, a deliberate plant to mislead them. And of course it would be the bane of his existence, Jurgen bloody Setzer, who would deliver the _coup de grace_. He wondered if he could get him outside and do away with him quietly, and get rid of the intelligence at the same time. But he dismissed this option almost immediately. The other SS officers in Paris would know what information Setzer carried, and all this would achieve was to blow his cover completely. No, he would have to play it by ear; first see what information Setzer actually had.

0o0

The expression on Setzer's face upon seeing Herman Peters instead of _Oberführer_ Schellenberg was priceless, and it took him a few seconds to hide his dismay. Harry suppressed a smirk; at least the man now knew that his attempt to undermine his senior officer had failed. But there was no time to enjoy this small victory – Harry had bigger fish to fry.  
"What have you got?" he asked brusquely, and Setzer's eyes slid beyond him to the door, behind which was the inner chamber that held all those who had any power in the _Reich_. The place where Setzer wanted to be more than any other.  
"Er… If I could speak to the _Oberführer_ -" he tried, but Harry cut him off impatiently.  
"There is no time for power games, Setzer. They have just begun to discuss the western front, so if you have anything, let's see it."  
The other man's shoulders sagged and he lifted the satchel that dangled from his hand. "I think we may have obtained the enemy's Invasion Plan."  
Harry's gaze never left the younger man's face. "How?"  
"A body washed up on the beach just south of Calais. Dressed as a French peasant. He had the papers on him, as well as a set of clothes – a uniform. It was a British soldier in disguise. From the papers it looks like he would have acted as a pathfinder for the gliders once the invasion starts. The sea had been rough the previous night; he must have drowned on his way to the beach."

Harry's heart beat a little faster. _Could it be_ …? He had suggested they put a decoy plan into circulation, but that was barely three days ago. Could they have got it done so quickly? "Let's see it," he ordered and held out his hand, and when Setzer did not respond immediately he snapped his fingers in irritation. The German offered the satchel and Harry opened it quickly. "Does it say when the invasion will be?" he asked as he folded open the map, and Setzer nodded, watching miserably as his chance for glory slipped through his fingers.  
"Yes. Early July sometime."  
"Hmm." Harry stared at the map, not quite believing his eyes. It identified landing sites in and around Calais. _Not_ Normandy. It was the decoy he had asked for, and he could have kissed the man in front of him. He looked up at Setzer, allowing the immense relief he felt to show. "Setzer, you have done a wonderful thing, bringing it here so quickly. Your timing could not have been more fortuitous," he said, clapping the man on the shoulder and steering him towards that room he so coveted to enter. "And because of that, I want you to tell the _Führer_ yourself."

0o0

When they entered, the debate about the location of the coming Allied Invasion was in full swing, and by all appearances had already become acrimonious. Harry edged around the room towards Schellenberg with Setzer in tow, the young man's eyes wide and his face flushed with excitement. Rommel was speaking. "We cannot discount the possibility that they may invade further south," he urged, and Harry saw that the real map of the Invasion had been spread open on the table. The Field Marshal stabbed a finger at Normandy. "It would have the advantage of surprise, and our defences are not as strong there as around Calais."  
Hitler's face flushed angrily. He really did look sick. "Really, Rommel? You truly believe they would be that stupid? There is no harbour, and the Channel crossing is more than four times as long. We'll see them coming, and a few committed soldiers will hold them off. No."  
" _Mein Führer_ -" Rommel tried manfully, but Hitler cut him off.  
"You are supposedly a military mastermind," he sneered, and Rommel blanched. "The Brits have fed us a lie and you are swallowing it hook, line and sinker. I thought you were smarter than that, Field Marshal."

Harry had reached Schellenberg and whispered urgently in his ear. The _Oberführer_ glanced sharply at Setzer and then, to everyone's surprise and possibly even his own, he spoke up. " _Mein Führer_ ," he called, and Hitler's head swung sharply towards the interruption. Rommel looked alarmed and Harry almost felt sorry for him; possibly he expected that this was the moment his involvement in the assassination plot would be exposed. Schellenberg pressed on hurriedly before Hitler could start shouting. "The _Sicherheitsdienst_ has obtained new intelligence," he announced as he propelled Setzer forward.  
"What intelligence?" Hitler asked suspiciously and Schellenberg nudged Setzer. "Come on, man. Put it on the table."  
The younger man opened the satchel with a shaking hand, overawed by the presence of his illustrious leader. He spread the new map on top of the real one, and every eye in the room fastened on it curiously. Except for one pair, which flitted from face to face, gauging reaction. Harry was keenly aware of the critical importance of this moment, and he needed to know where each man around that table stood. Rommel closed his eyes and a look of defeat flashed briefly across his features. But Hitler's face was bright with excitement and Harry knew that the battle was half-won.

"You see, Rommel!" the _Führer_ exclaimed exuberantly, "there is the proof of your folly!"  
The General narrowed his eyes and when he spoke it was to Harry rather than Schellenberg. "Hang on. The _Sicherheitsdienst_ has brought us two plans, every time claiming it is the right one. How do you explain that?"  
Once again Harry felt a grudging respect for the man. He was certainly not a fool, but an adversary worth his salt. Then Schellenberg spoke up next to him. " _Standartenführer_ Peters is our expert on the enemy. I am going to let him explain," he said modestly, neatly throwing his subordinate under the bus. He had no way of knowing that he might be doing the same with his beloved _Reich_ as well.

 _tbc_


	15. Chapter 15

**PART XV: Consummation**

 _So fair a victor, how can I help but be conquered._

\- Alice Borchardt, The Wolf King

 _22 March 1944  
Berlin_

Harry could not believe his luck. Schellenberg did not look at him, expecting to see reproach from his subordinate should he dare to do so. But every other eye in the room turned to the _Standartenführer_ and Harry took a step forward. " _Mein Führer_ ," he began deferentially. _I am Herman Peters, a German SS officer, and Adolf Hitler is my god_. "I believe the later plan is the real one. The invasion will take place at Calais."  
Hitler nodded immediately. He was a man convinced of his own military brilliance, and if he believed the invasion was to take place where the Channel crossing was shortest, it must be correct.  
Just as Harry began to think that this particular battle was won, a voice cut through the air.

"Why?" Rommel was watching him intently. And with some suspicion. A frisson of fear ran down Harry's spine as he remembered the gamble he had taken earlier when speaking to the General outside. Perhaps it had been a miscalculation. He saw now that Rommel was a patriot above all else, and whilst he might consider removing Hitler he would never consider deliberately losing the war. His allegiance was to the country, and not to the politicians who ran it. Harry understood; this was exactly how he saw his own role. So now he had a serious problem - Rommel believed that the invasion would take place in Normandy and he would fight until the last to convince the others. Harry looked towards Hitler, hoping that he would put an end to the debate, but the feverish eyes were also watching the SS officer closely. He wanted to hear the arguments against an invasion attempt in Normandy. Very well, then. Harry knew that he could never win a military argument against Rommel – he would have an answer for everything. But he was confident that no one in this room was his equal when it came to intelligence matters, and he would use that.

"My reasoning is based on the manner in which we obtained the two different plans, Field Marshal," he said calmly, and they all stared at him in surprise. _So far, so good_. "The first plan, which indicates that the Allied invasion will take place in Normandy, was obtained by one of our agents, stolen from the British Ambassador in Ankara. The agent was able to obtain it because the Ambassador left it lying on his desk overnight. Now I ask myself, would anyone be so careless with such a valuable document? And would the Allied leadership disseminate such sensitive information to all their ambassadors in the first place? I think not. The only logical explanation is that they knew we had an agent in the embassy, and that it was a plant. They _want_ us to move the bulk of our troops south, so that it would be easier for a landing in Calais to succeed."

He paused and looked at the faces surrounding him, gauging the impact of his argument. He had their attention, every last one of them. "Then I consider the manner in which we obtained the second plan, which indicates that the invasion will come at Calais," he continued. "A body washes up south of Calais after a stormy night. He is dressed in French peasant clothing, but when the body is searched a satchel of papers is discovered. It turns out to be an Invasion Plan. But, this isn't all that is found – he also has a parcel of clothes, and in there is an army uniform. A British uniform," he stressed meaningfully, encouraged by the rapt attention from the _Führer_. "We know that they have tried before to deposit spies into France by boat, under cover of night. They would be in a small craft for the last two miles or so, and the chances of such a craft surviving a heavy storm is not good. So, the only logical conclusion to be drawn is that this man was a British soldier, on a mission to infiltrate France. His objective was to act as pathfinder to the first troops of the invasion, the ones we expect to come in by glider and parachute."

But Rommel was not about to let him off the hook. "Why would he carry a British uniform? Why take such a big risk? If he was caught, there was no way to talk his way out of that," he argued.  
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Hitler got there before him. "He must have a uniform to put on once the invasion starts; otherwise his own side would shoot him on sight. It's obvious," he added impatiently and Rommel flushed again. "Enough of this," the _Führer_ continued, "I have made my decision. We will concentrate our defences on Calais-"  
" _Mein Führer_ -" Rommel interjected and Hitler held up a hand, cutting off the protest.  
"You can have the 21st Panzers at the southern end, close to Caen. They're mobile, and they are the pride of the _Wehrmacht_ – the best and bravest. You'll be able to deploy them quickly towards Normandy should I be wrong, which I'm not."  
The two men stared each other down; the bond between these two giants of Germany now irrevocably broken. And to prove it, Hitler added, "And one more thing. You will not implement any military decisions which I have not approved, Field Marshal. When the invasion comes, you will wait for my order before you counter-attack."

0o0

 _Later that afternoon_

It was an uncomfortable flight back to Paris. Harry shared it with Jurgen Setzer and Field Marshal Rommel, perhaps the two people in all of Germany that posed the biggest threat to him. Rommel gave him a cold shoulder and Harry was thankful. He was exhausted; the stress of the last few days had finally caught up with him and he did not think he could continue to sell the fake plan for five more hours whilst cooped up in the plane. So he closed his eyes and rested his head against the vibrating steel plates of the hull, and in his fatigue he could not stop his mind from wandering to his reunion with Ruth. The mere thought of it set his blood racing, and he was thankful for the gloomy interior that would hide any outward signs of his anticipation. They would arrive back just before dark and then he would first have to report back to the others and compile his Teuton report to send to Britain, so the café should have closed by the time he could get away to see her. She would open the door, and the first sight of those stormy eyes would break any resolve he had left, and he would press himself against her and-

" _Standartenführer_ ," a voice said close to his right ear.  
Shag _._ His eyes flew open at the rude interruption to find Setzer seated next to him. He suppressed a sigh. "Setzer," he responded, deliberately not using the man's rank.  
"I wanted to thank you," the young man said, oblivious to the unwelcoming reaction from his superior. "For allowing me to bring the information to the _Führer_. You could have taken the credit yourself, and you did not. I won't forget that."  
Harry watched him from under half-closed lids, trying to divine the sincerity of the words. It would be uncharacteristic if the incident stopped Setzer from further attempts to undermine Herman Peters, and he would have to remain on his guard. But what it could do was buy him some time. All he needed was a little over two months, and then the invasion would come and it would no longer matter whether they knew who and what he was. So he shrugged. "I believe credit should go where it is due. You did very well, and it could be the crucial aspect in winning or losing this war. So, _Obersturmbannführer_ , you will get the reward for your actions."  
Setzer's eyes widened at the uttering of the higher rank, the one once held by Hans Prinz, and he could not suppress the delighted smile that spread across his face. _Keep your enemies close_ , Harry thought as he returned the smile and solemnly shook the promoted officer's hand.

0o0

 _Paris  
Late night_

Ruth sat curled on the sofa, her feet beneath her and Scarlet on her lap, and tried to read a book. It was hopeless. She couldn't concentrate; her thoughts jumped all over the place. Mostly they went to Berlin, wondering what was happening, where he was, what he was doing. Whether he was all right. Whether he was blown and the war already lost. She ran her hand absently over the dog's head and turned the page, no idea of what she had just read on it. But she had to keep going; she wasn't tired and if she went to bed she would only lie there and stare at the ceiling, and fret about the unpleasant things they might be doing to Harry.

It was Scarlet that heard it first, pricking her ears and turning her head to stare fixedly at the door.  
"What is it?" Ruth asked, fear immediately rising, and the next moment the dog shot from her lap, tail wagging frantically. Only then did she hear it herself; the footsteps she knew so well by now. _His_ footsteps. She rushed to the door, and he barely had time to knock before she had it open.  
"Ha- Herman," she breathed, belatedly remembering that someone might overhear. Those two syllables held all the relief in the world, and his brown eyes smiled into hers. She dragged him inside and hurriedly closed and locked the door whilst he knelt down and fussed over Scarlet. He took something from his pocket and unwrapped it – a big, juicy bone that he offered to the dog. She took it and scampered away to her corner, unable to believe her luck, and when Harry straightened up and gazed at Ruth, they both wore very much the same expressions. She scanned his face anxiously and it was unblemished, and her heart soared. He looked tired but happy, and when she looked into his eyes again he was gazing at her lovingly. And hungrily, she realised belatedly. Deeper, barely veiled, was a dangerous blaze that ignited a fire in her belly. She knew, then, that if he ever lost control he would sweep her right along with him, that she would not be able to bring them back from the brink like he could. Perhaps it was the age difference between them; maybe one learnt to control such all-devouring passion with experience. She didn't know, and right then she didn't particularly care. She _wanted_ him to sweep her away, to sate her own hunger. And he must have seen that in her eyes, because he stepped towards her and said hurriedly, "It's done. They had the real Invasion Plan but I convinced them it was planted, a ploy to deceive them."  
"Oh, thank G-" she began to say, but his lips were on hers before she could finish.

0o0

She was lost. Totally, utterly lost the moment his tongue invaded her mouth and a hand found her buttock and pressed her against him. There was no longer any reason or conscious thought, only sensation. The swelling of his desire against her stomach; a fleeting awareness of triumph that she could do this to him – get him hard for her within seconds. But almost immediately it wasn't enough; she wanted more. More contact, more fire, more skin, and even as she lifted to her toes to get that delicious hardness where she most wanted it, her hands were scrabbling at his smooth leather overcoat, trying to get some purchase, to get it off and out of the way. He tore his mouth from hers and gasped helplessly, "Oh Christ, Ruth," and she knew it was his way of saying that he was lost too, that he couldn't stop, but it was the last thing she wanted him to do even if he could. As she finally got hold of the lapels and wrenched the coat from his shoulders she could only manage one word in response.  
"Please," she breathed, and he let go of the last remnants of his self-control.

His lips found hers again, so soft, so sexy, as he spun them and pressed her against the wall. His hands were everywhere – running through her hair, caressing her breasts, squeezing her bum, before running down her leg to the hem of her shortish skirt. And then gloriously, one hand found its way underneath and he ran his palm up the inside of her thigh. Her nerves sparked and caught fire and sent shockwaves straight to her core until she was overwhelmed. Her knees buckled and she gave up her attempts to loosen his jacket and instead threw her arms around his neck. The motion brought him briefly to his senses and he realised he was seconds away from having her right there against the wall, and if he did it would be over in minutes. What he wanted more than anything was to hear her moan his name – his real name – as she came, and he wasn't sure he could manage to take her over the edge with him if things went that quickly. So he removed his hand and instead lifted her until her legs locked around him, and carried her to the bedroom.

Ruth used the slight interruption to kiss him again; she couldn't get enough of the velvety feel of his lips, of the sensation of his tongue caressing hers. He stumbled as his legs hit the side of the bed and he put her down and kneeled in front of her. Before she could wonder what he was up to his hands reached for her blouse and began to undo the buttons. There were a lot of them and he got about halfway before swearing impatiently and simply dragging the garment up and over her head. He took a moment to admire the brassiere before reaching behind her and deftly unclipping it, and not for the first time she got the impression that he was rather more experienced in these matters than she would like to think. She was now naked from the waist up and he stared unashamedly.  
"Christ," he repeated as he reached for her eagerly, "so bloody gorgeous." And then those talented lips were on her breasts and the deliciousness of it swirled through her whole body. Every cell called out for the same attention and she tried again to get his jacket off and get to his skin, but his mouth was fastened on her left breast and she couldn't see what she was doing. Her nipples were hard as pebbles and so, so sensitive, and when he gently scraped his teeth across it she cried out, unable to control her reactions.  
"God, Harry!"  
She was tugging impatiently at his clothes and he got the message; standing quickly and beginning to strip off unceremoniously.

It was her turn to stare unabashedly, first at the smooth chest and flat stomach before being drawn to the flexing of his biceps as he reached for his trousers and loosened them. They fell to the floor and her gaze followed, gliding over well-formed legs before coming back to his underwear, fastening as if hypnotised on his arousal as he slid those down too and removed boots and socks. He straightened up and stood looking down on her, totally naked. His groin was level with her face and her own gaze dropped down there once more, astonished at how achingly erect he was. For _her_. This was so different from her previous fumbling experiences with the young men of her own age and for the first time she felt apprehension. He seemed so confident, so very experienced. What if she disappointed him? And what was she supposed to do now? His arousal was right in front of her – did he expect her to…? She'd heard that men liked that sort of thing. Panic started to rise and she was almost overwhelmed by the need to flee, and some of that must have shown in her expression because he cupped her cheek and lifted her face to his. He bent down and kissed her softly, sweetly, and with such devotion that her qualms simply melted away. She loved him, she _wanted_ him, and she could have lost him, but he was here before her, offering himself to her and she would be a fool to run now. They were in the middle of a war, and there may never be another chance. He ran a gentle thumb over her nipple and the fire ignited again, and she reached behind her and let down the zipper of her skirt without breaking the kiss.

He heard the sound and it was the tacit permission he had been looking for. He pulled back and looked into her eyes, his own dark with pent-up desire as he pushed her down on the bed and reached for the skirt. She lifted her hips and allowed him to strip off the last pieces of clothing left between them, until they were both naked and defenceless. He swallowed audibly at the sight of her, desire pulsing almost painfully through him, and it took all his willpower not to simply pounce on her and bury himself in one swift thrust. Instead he took the time to caress her thighs, to watch in fascination as her legs began to shake with the effort to control her reactions and a blush blossomed over those heavenly breasts, and he knew that she was just as aroused as he was. Just as desperate for the final joining, and he couldn't wait any longer. He lowered himself onto her until he was nestled against her heat. He sought her mouth again, his own limbs now also trembling with the effort of restraining himself, but when she sucked on his lower lip and rubbed against him he couldn't take any more. They worked together to align him, to adjust the angles as he carefully pushed inside her inch by inch so that she could adjust to his girth, until he was buried to the hilt. She laughed briefly, amazed and overwhelmed, and he smiled back at her. God, it felt so, so good, but his whole body was screaming out for more friction, for release.  
"Yes?" he asked urgently as his hips began to move of their own volition, and she nodded dazedly.  
"God, yes."

 _tbc_


	16. Chapter 16

**PART XVI: In limbo**

 _And it seemed as though for a moment, the world encapsulated them in a giant sigh. As if the world was exhausted by humanity – by the bellows of war and bullets, of hateful cries and grieving tears._

\- Kelseyleigh Reber, A Curious Tale of the In-Between

 _22 March 1944  
Paris, late night_

By the time they started to move together he had no reserves of self control left. After three or four strokes his pace increased until it was almost frantic. He plunged into her hard and fast, and still she urged him on. Fuelled by months of suppressed mutual longing the world shrunk to just these two bodies in its carnal dance. All she knew was the way he filled her again and again and again, and if she tilted her hips just so it caused tremors of pleasure to shoot up her spine, only increased by the friction of his sparse chest hair over her sensitive nipples. She began to feel like she was spiralling out of herself, that all she consisted of was her nerve-ends and her core, and that the only thing keeping her anchored to this world was his hardness inside of her. Oh God, she felt like crying and laughing, like screaming her pleasure for all to hear; she had never known it could be this _good_. His back was slick with sweat under her hands, the skin so smooth, and she slid them down and over his buttocks to feel the strength of the muscles there as they contracted rhythmically. She had wanted to keep her eyes open, to watch his face above her during their love-making, but she was too overwhelmed. Her head was thrown back, exposing the delicate skin of her throat to him, and he regularly sampled the taste of her there, licking, sucking, laving with his tongue. And just when she thought it couldn't be any better, he hooked an arm behind her left knee and pulled the leg up and slightly away, opening her up further. It allowed him to slide in even deeper until he touched a spot within her that made fireworks explode behind her eyelids, and then she knew nothing else but his name. _Harry, Harry, Harry_ , with each stroke. She lasted for only a few minutes before she fell, her orgasm sweeping through her with such force that she would afterwards swear that she'd lost consciousness whilst it lasted. She was not aware that she called his name out loud, or that the combination of that and her inner muscles gripping him with such strength that he could not continue thrusting caused him to tumble over the edge as well. She was not aware of the low, drawn out grunt in her ear whilst he came deep inside her, which may or may not have been her name, or of the way he collapsed on top of her in the aftermath, spent and sated.

By the time she surfaced again, he had rolled off her and was pressed to her side, his hand repeatedly stroking her stomach.  
"Mm…Harry…?" she managed to mumble incoherently, becoming aware that his groin was pressed against her hip, now soft and sticky, and bringing back memories of the pleasure it had provided her mere minutes ago. A tremor ran through her, an aftershock of the orgasm, and his hand stilled briefly on her stomach until it passed.  
"All right?" His voice rumbled next to her ear, deep and gorgeous and sexy, causing another tremor.  
She turned her head and there he was, right next to her on the pillow, eyes sleepy and half-lidded, his expression as content as she had ever seen. And that mouth; his full lips were slightly pouted as he gazed at her, and she couldn't resist it. She craned her neck until she could kiss him and he happily reciprocated, the hand on her stomach creeping up until it could cup her breast and massage it gently. When she broke the kiss eventually he smiled and quipped, "I'll take that as a yes," and she laughed giddily. He could not fight the fatigue any longer and his eyes began to close, and he pulled her more securely against him as he mumbled apologetically, "Got to sleep for a while."  
She nodded, but he was drifting off already, and she lay and watched his face until sleep claimed her as well.

0o0

 _23 March  
01:00_

Her bladder woke her in the early morning hours. They were spooned together, his arm flung over her middle, and he was snoring lightly behind her. She didn't want to move; would gladly have stayed in his warm embrace for the rest of the night, but eventually the pressure became too much and she began to carefully disentangle her limbs from his. She need not have worried – he was dead to the world and the rhythm of his breathing didn't change as she slipped out of bed. A surge of compassion filled her heart; she could not imagine the pressure he would have felt in Berlin, but clearly the last few days had exhausted him. Because he was always so confident, so contained, one tended to underestimate the toll the last eight years must have taken on him. She resisted the urge to run her hand through his hair and instead grabbed her gown and left the room quietly.

0o0

 _Twenty minutes later_

"What are you doing?"  
She jerked her head up at the sound of his voice. She had been so engrossed in his report that she did not hear him enter the sitting room. He leant against the doorjamb, quite naked, and her hand instinctively reached for the collar of her robe to ensure it was properly closed. A quirked eyebrow and a smirk told her in no uncertain terms that he thought it was a bit bloody late for modesty, and she sheepishly dropped her hand again.  
"Reading your report," she responded, trying valiantly not to stare. Sure, she had seen it all before, but that had been in the throes of passion, and she had always been rather inhibited about sex and nudity. To her surprise, though, she found the fact that he was so unperturbed by these things lessening her own awkwardness.  
"There will be time enough for that in the morning," he countered. "Come back to bed."  
Something in his voice made her gaze drop below his waist. Surely he couldn't possibly-. Her eyes widened. Apparently he could. When she returned to his face again the smirk had grown wider. And yet behind it, buried deep in his eyes, was a hint of vulnerability. He was worried that he would scare her off. She never wanted him to think there was any chance of that, wanted him to know that quite the opposite was true. That she had become addicted to him; that she didn't think she could ever get tired of having him inside her. So she put the papers aside and rose to meet him, sliding her hand over his chest and revelling in the goose pimples her touch elicited. He drew her against him and kissed her, rekindling the fire that had run so hotly through her veins a few hours ago. Yes, she would never get enough of him. Instead she was rather in danger of being totally consumed by him, but there was no chance of analysing that realisation as he slid a hand under her robe and caressed her until she melted against him. Only then did he take her to bed and make love to her with long, slow strokes, and her last coherent thought was amazement that he could make her come undone in such divergent ways.

0o0

 _07:38_

She was perched on the sofa and he was sat on the chair opposite her, elbows resting on his knees and hands folded loosely together. They were both neatly turned out, ready to face the day. It had required some coordinated movement to get here; her small bathroom barely had enough space for two people to stand in, never-mind moving around and completing their ablutions. But they had managed, admirably so, and she marvelled at how well they seemed to fit together. She would forever remember the image of him behind her left shoulder in the mirror as she put on her make-up, knotting his tie with a small frown of concentration etched between his eyes. He'd become aware of her scrutiny and his gaze had met hers whilst his fingers continued their deft movements, as his mouth quirked in a smile. And when he was done he had leant forward, sweeping her hair to one side to kiss her neck, right at the junction with her shoulder. His lips had moved up until they reached her ear and had enveloped her earlobe and sucked briefly.  
"Don't make yourself too beautiful, or we'll never get out of here," his voice had murmured, eliciting a low, delighted laugh from her. She had not known it could feel so good to be desired.

But now it was time to get down to business, and she had his report open before her on the coffee table, taking him through it in minute detail and obtaining as much information as she could. "So you think Hitler might be ill?" she asked. He had related the events of the bunker meeting to her and she'd made a few notes in the margins, augmenting what was already there in his scrawled script.  
He tilted his head, considering. "I'm not sure. It could simply be the stress of the war. But he looked different from when I last saw him – pale and sweaty at the same time, the eyes unnaturally bright. He could have been on something."  
"What, drugs you mean?"  
"No… He was too lucid for that. Medication, maybe. Some sort of amphetamines."  
"All right," she said, scribbling busily. "And he doesn't trust his generals any more, you say?"  
One hand lifted and rubbed his newly shaved chin. "That's correct."  
She waited for more, and he obliged. "He ordered Rommel not to counter-attack without an explicit order from Berlin once the invasion starts. Meaning from the _Führer_ himself. Ruth," he stressed, "this is important. I know how things work in Berlin. Everyone lives in fear of Hitler, and no-one dares disturb him when he sleeps. If the invasion takes place in the middle of the night, it will buy the first wave of forces a couple of hours before the counter-attack will start. It could be the deciding factor between success and failure."  
She nodded. "Adam said it will start around midnight," she confirmed.  
"One more thing," he continued. "The 21st Panzer division is the best the _Reich_ has." He leaned further forward to point at the map. "They will be stationed here, between the rivers close to Caen. It is an extremely mobile division, and it is imperative that the first forces prevent them from getting across the bridges and to the beaches in the south."

Once she had coded the report and folded the maps and secreted them in the pouch strapped to her inner thigh, she looked up to find him standing in front of the window and staring out thoughtfully over the city. His back was to her, broad-shouldered in the SS uniform, and she wondered what he was thinking.  
"So what now?" she asked and he turned towards her. Early sunlight slanted through the window and turned his face into contrasts of light and shadow. Much like the man himself.  
"Now we go to work. Same as always," he responded as he leant back onto the windowsill.  
"No, I know, but I meant… It's more than two months until the invasion," she elaborated.  
"Mmm," he murmured, eyes twinkling mischievously, "whatever shall we do to pass the time?"  
She stared at him, momentarily annoyed that he was not taking her question seriously, but it was impossible to resist those twinkling eyes and she capitulated, suppressing a smile and shaking her head. "Incorrigible man," she retorted fondly, unable to prevent the delicious memories of the previous night to overrun her mind.

They left together, automatically switching to French the moment they stepped through the door, chatting amiably as they went down the stairs. As soon as they stepped into the street he paused to light a cigarette, then placed his cap on his head and pulled down the brim. And just like that, right in front of her eyes, he morphed into _Standartenführer_ Herman Peters. She watched as he strode down the pavement, black leather coat flapping around his legs, every inch the German conqueror, and found it impossible to reconcile this image with the other one that was now imprinted on her retinas forever; the vision of his face above her as he brought her to orgasm. She took a deep breath and turned towards the café, determined to follow his example, to play her role as the French horizontal collaborator unto the very end.

0o0

 _24 March to 05 June_

The days passed, one by interminable one, and they continued to lead their double lives. Harry's main concern through this time was Jurgen Setzer, and he made sure to keep the SS officer close where he could keep an eye on him. He made him Peters' right hand man and ensured he got the benefits concomitant to such a privileged position. It seemed to work, as he got no wind of Setzer secretly working against him, but he was under no illusions. The young officer would turn against him as soon as an opportune moment presented itself, and Harry knew that opportunity would come the day the invasion started. Once it became clear to the Germans that the invasion was taking place in Normandy and not in Calais, a scapegoat would be sought. Hitler, Schellenberg and the rest would conveniently forget that they had also supported that position, and Peters would get the blame. And when that happened, Setzer would be only too happy to play the role of judge and executioner. Therefore, the moment it started, he and Ruth would have to leave Paris. He began to put their escape plan in place.

For Ruth the time seemed to pass in long featureless stretches interspersed with small, memorable vignettes. There was the rainy Sunday afternoon when they were spooned together in bed, Harry moving gently inside her whilst at the same time having an earnest conversation.  
"Do you ever fear that you will lose yourself in all these lies?" she asked as her hand sought his hip and pulled him closer.  
He considered the question for a few strokes. "Sometimes. But I don't dwell on it." His lips found her shoulder and moved up her neck until he reached her ear, where he took the lobe into his mouth and bit down gently.  
She hummed her appreciation. "I do," she confessed, and when he pulled away to look at her questioningly she clarified, "I worry that each time I tell a lie, I lose a piece of myself."  
"You haven't yet," he countered, and she smiled at his confidence despite only knowing her for a few months.  
"No. Not yet," she conceded, "but then I've only been at this spying business for a short while."  
He turned her head so that he could stare into her eyes and he was close, so close, and she felt like he was looking straight into the very depths of her soul. "You're a born spy, Ruth Evershed," he asserted before giving her his mouth for a deep kiss.  
When they eventually parted she persisted, "But how do you do it? How have you kept hold of yourself during these eight years?"  
As he answered he changed the angle of his hips slightly and she began to have trouble keeping hold of the thread of the conversation. "The trick is to keep your false persona as close as possible to your real one, with one or two significant differences."  
Pleasure began to spiral through her along with realisation. "The… ah… cigarettes… Oh God, _there_. Yesss…"

Then, for four days in the middle of April Harry went away, on another tour of the Atlantic defences with Field Marshal Rommel, and she lived in perpetual fear. Jurgen Setzer came to the café every single day during that time, his pale eyes following her about suspiciously. She slept badly the first night, constantly on the alert, worried that Setzer would come to the apartment and search it, or try and interrogate her about what had happened to Hans Prinz. The second night she heard a noise outside her door, and rather than wait for the danger to come she decided to confront it head-on. She yanked open the door angrily, only to find a sheepish Zaf in the corridor. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, adrenalin still coursing strongly through her.  
"The _Standartenführer_ -, er," he glanced around and dropped his voice, "Mr Pearce told me to keep an eye on you," he confessed.  
So she invited him inside, and for the rest of Harry's absence he slept on her sofa.

In late April the weather began to turn; spring was finally breaking the back of winter and temperatures rose. A French noblewoman, in an effort to maintain the goodwill of the Germans, held a banquet for the senior SS officers stationed in Paris and their partnrs. Ruth had no option but to go; by now Herman Peters spent almost every night with his French mistress and it would raise questions if she did not go. But she dreaded it; dreaded having to spend an entire night surrounded by men who continued to torture and kill Jews by the millions. It was a night of excess and debauchery, but also of illumination. For the first time she saw Harry in prolonged action as Herman Peters and her admiration for his abilities grew tenfold. Throughout the night he was the granite-faced _Standartenführer_ , and he maintained that aloofness even as the evening wore on and the champagne was brought up from the cellar by the crate. There were increasingly drunken toasts to the _Führer_ and to the _Reich_ , and she watched in fascination as he appeared to become more inebriated than he actually was, and skilfully directed each conversation he had with his fellow officers to subjects that could glean titbits of intelligence useful to the Allies. He was a master of his craft. Resplendent in his dress uniform he exuded an intoxicating mix of authority and mystery, and she saw many of the other women there look at him appreciatively, and at her with jealousy. They clearly thought she had got the most desirable one of the lot and the thought made her want to laugh out loud. If they only knew.

As the champagne continued to flow inhibitions disappeared and she was not surprised to at one stage observe Wouter Stegen being straddled by a woman in a corner as she and Harry passed by on the dance floor. Harry noticed it too. He stepped towards them and gave their chair a vicious kick, very much the commanding officer in that instant. "Get a fucking room," he growled irritably before steering Ruth away again. "Time to go, I think," he murmured in her ear and she had never been more relieved to hear those words. As he steered her towards the door she was aware of Setzer watching them all the way.

Once out of sight of the chateau Harry slipped an arm around her and they sauntered towards her apartment, the cool night air somewhat clearing their heads. Mist rose from the Seine and created halos around the intermittent street lamps, and maybe it was the wonderful French champagne coursing through her that gave the whole scene a magical glow. Whatever the reason, she was determined to savour this moment, ambling along the Seine with the man she loved, and when he paused in a pool of darkness and turned her towards him, she kissed him back with fervour. They went home and enjoyed each other without restraint or inhibition.

The first few days of June were filled with anxiety and anticipation. The invasion would happen any day now, and they had to be ready to leave at a moment's notice. When bad weather set in on the fourth and appeared intent to stay for many days, Harry could not hide his frustration. He prowled around the apartment as they listened for the signal on the BBC World Service between eleven and midnight every night, and she did her best to soothe him, but she also understood. After eight long years he was ready to get out, to go back to being just Harry Pearce. And when the signal did not come on 4 June, the next day being the designated day for the Allied Invasion, they were both bitterly disappointed. "It's interminable," Harry complained, and she could only nod and watch him pace.

0o0

 _06 June 1944  
00:16, Pegasus Bridge just outside Benouville_

The first glider with British airborne troops crashed about 50 metres from the bridge, right where it was supposed to, and the men of D Company of the 6th Airborne poured out and set about taking control of the bridge from the Germans. They were quickly followed by paratroopers, dropped inland of the targeted beaches to try and disrupt the enemy's counter-attacks. The Allied Invasion had finally begun.

 _tbc_


	17. Chapter 17

**PART XVII: Midnight flight**

 _I am death; I am this blood, these ravaged lands, and this wanton destruction._

\- Krishna Udayasankar, Kurukshetra

 _05 June 1944  
Rosa's apartment, 23:40_

They sat huddled around the radio, listening to the messages read out by the announcer. _From Betty in Leeds to Johnny in Dorset – I love you. The baby started crawling today… From David in the Dover barracks to Lucy – I am sending the money to fix the roof… From Ann in London to Charles Paxton – Wherever you are, I hope you are safe and that you are thinking of me…_ And so on. They didn't speak, but Ruth could sense the tension running through Harry. The weather was still bad, but he believed it might just have cleared enough for the invasion to start. "I'd have risked it," he'd said to her earlier that evening. "It would increase the element of surprise if the Germans believed the weather is still too bad for a Channel crossing." She didn't know enough about these things to contradict him and besides, he'd shown repeatedly that he was a shrewd military strategist himself. So she'd allowed herself to be swept along by his optimism, and now they listened anxiously for the signal, barely breathing. She glanced at the clock – it was moving towards 23:55 and she sighed softly. If the signal didn't come Harry would be bitterly disappointed. It was such a rare thing for the man next to her to show weakness, and she was moved that he trusted her enough to let her see it. She was aware that she was probably the only person in the world that would ever see him show these emotions, and the knowledge scared and thrilled her in equal measure. It was a great responsibility to hold someone else's heart in one's hands, and she was terrified that she would drop it. She had never been in a serious relationship before, and she was still figuring out how to go about things. Neither of them was particularly demonstrative and this complicated matters. Feelings were not expressed, and a lot of their communication happened in subscript. There were bound to be misunderstandings, and of course she longed to hear him say out loud how he felt about her. But there would be time for those conversations later, once they were home. _Home_ … What would happen to them once they were back on English soil? Would this intense connection between them survive, or would it gradually wither without the rarefied air of continuous danger?  
"Ruth," he said urgently, bringing her back to the room and to the radio.

 _From Juliet to my darling Adam in Putney. The parcel is on its way and will arrive tomorrow. I miss you terribly._

They stared at each other, looking for confirmation that they hadn't misheard.  
"That's it," Harry breathed and she nodded, her heart going at a hundred miles an hour.  
"Yes, that's it," she confirmed, and they both exploded into action.

0o0

 _06 June 1944  
D-Day_

They each had one small bag and Harry fetched them from the closet whilst Ruth hurriedly packed some food. She met him at the door and took a moment to look back at the space where she had experienced so many emotions over the last few months. Where she had gone from hating the man next to her, to admiration, infatuation and finally love. The sentiment almost overwhelmed her and she swallowed hard.  
"Ready?" he asked briskly, all business, and she searched his face, looking for some of the same emotions that she was experiencing. But she was disappointed. He was in full operational mode and there was no time for sentiment. So she dipped her head and mumbled "Yes," once again made aware how disturbingly easily he seemed to switch off all feeling.

They went downstairs and the old truck was waiting right where Adam had promised it would be. Zaf was behind the wheel, and he briefly smiled at them as they passed the cab and moved to the back. The flap lifted and a pale face poked out – Adam. He grinned.  
"Harry. Bloody hell," he said, holding out his hand for their bags.  
The older man handed them over and smiled in return. "Still alive then, Adam?" he responded and bent down to pick up the little dog at his feet.  
"What's that?" Adam asked, a confused frown on his face.  
"Scarlet. She's going with us," Harry said, shoving her into Adam's arms and turning to heave Ruth up towards Jo, who had come over to help.  
"A bloody dog?!" Adam hissed incredulously. "Jesus, Harry. We can't take a bloody dog with us!"  
Harry pulled himself to his full height and stared the younger man down. "She's going with us," he reiterated, his tone brooking no further argument. "I extradited the Contessa de Borgia from Italy right under the fascists' noses in '32 with her three French poodles - giant, fluffy things. Surely you can handle one tiny dog then."  
Adam opened his mouth to protest further, then closed it again. "Fuck's sake," he grumbled, "get in."  
Once they were all settled the engine rumbled into life and the truck headed south, out of the city.

0o0

 _Daybreak, coast of Normandy_

Once the sun came up, the barrage began. The Allied warships lying off the coast opened fire, and the landing craft departed from the mother ships to deposit the first of 175,000 men and 50,000 vehicles that would land on the beaches that day. All in all the invasion comprised of 5,333 ships and craft of all types, supported by almost 11,000 airplanes. The landings were impeded by underwater mines and beach obstacles such as wooden stakes, metal tripods and barbed wire. The soldiers also came under intense fire from gun emplacements overlooking the beaches, and by the end of the day over 4,000 Allied soldiers would be dead.

And still Hitler vacillated about giving the order to counter-attack, paralysing the German commanders on the ground and allowing the Allied soldiers to establish a beach-head.

0o0

 _Paris, 09:15_

Jurgen Setzer knocked on the _Standartenführer_ 's office door for the third time. He had a sheaf of messages in his hand, and they reflected the confusion the German High Command was in about the enfolding events in Normandy. Was the attack the real invasion, or a diversion for the bigger one that was still to come? Setzer hammered against the door again, but once more there was no answer. "He's probably still in bed with his French whore," he said viciously to the young messenger hovering behind him. "Come on."

They made haste to the _Champs-Elysees_ and Rosa's apartment; clattering up the stairs to the third floor. Setzer repeatedly bashed on the door, but the flat remained silent, and he felt the first stirring of unease. "Get a locksmith," he ordered shortly, before going downstairs to the café. It too was closed, with no sign of life. It was then that he knew. All the events of the last five months came together to form a complete picture – one of betrayal. The arrival of the girl, Peters' sudden interest in the opposite sex; the death of Prinz, who had intimated to Setzer that he knew something juicy about the _Standartenführer_ ; Peters' efforts to convince them all that the Allied invasion would take place at Calais. And now the disappearance of everyone connected to the café. Rage descended and he kicked the door viciously, over and over. "That fucking bastard! The stinking, treacherous _schweine-hund_!" On and on he raged, whilst everyone passing in the street stopped and stared. "I will hunt him to the ends of the earth," he vowed, giving the door a last brutal kick before storming off.

0o0

 _08 June 1944  
Village of Oradour-sur-Glane_

The small group of intelligence officers moved only under cover of darkness, slowly working their way towards the coast. The aim was to outflank the advancing front as the Allied Forces pushed inland, each metre gained hard-won with the blood of brave, ordinary young men. During the day they were hidden by members of the Resistance, and provided with food and other essentials. Wherever they came there was a sense of euphoria, of hope that the German yoke would soon be lifted. In the midst of all of this Harry and Ruth had not had much time alone – his attention had been claimed by the others, eager to hear his remarkable tale. Jo and Zaf gazed at him with something akin to hero-worship as he calmly related his many adventures, and all the while the doubt gnawed away at her. Doubt whether their connection would survive the return to England. He would step straight back into harness at the Service upon their return, of that she was certain. It was in his blood, the spying; an integral part of his identity. She was not so sure, however, that this life was for her. She could not shake the vision of that family hanging in the woods, or Harry's expressionless face as he shot Hans Prinz. Had he had that same blank look when he had shot those children? The thought made her shudder. A life in the Intelligence Service, she now knew, would exact a heavy toll on her soul, her conscience. Did she want to spend the rest of her life covered in blood? Because even if she did not pull the trigger herself, if she only sat behind a desk and analysed information, she would be complicit in every death.

Harry appeared at her side as though summoned by these very thoughts, and smiled at her. The smile that softened his features, the one he seemed to reserve only for her, and she almost forgot about her doubts. He touched her arm just as Jo walked past, and the young girl smirked knowingly. The doubts returned in full force.  
"Want to go for a walk?" he asked, and she had to look away from the intensity in his eyes. Here was a man who desired her, who treated her well, and who wanted to spend time alone with her. But here was also a man with blood on his hands, who could shut off his emotions on demand, and who had devoted his life to the protection of his country. Who had walked away from everything and everyone he valued once already, to answer the call of that demanding mistress.  
"I can't," she mumbled miserably, not daring to look at him. Her resolve might not survive that. "People will think-" She stopped, and he tilted his head to study her.  
"So what? We're adults, we're allowed to spend time together. Alone."  
She laughed despairingly, searching for the right words to make him understand. "I can't stand the knowing looks, the whispers," she finally confessed, and his face softened before he lifted his chin determinedly, ready to argue. She should have known he would not give up easily – Harry Pearce did not throw in the towel at the first sign of resistance. Knowing that this was one of those times where hints and intimations would not work, she steeled herself and turned to look at him. "I can't, Harry. This. _Us_. The choices you've made... Sorry," she added lamely, still so inarticulate, but he seemed to grasp her meaning.

He pulled his hand back from her arm and did not bother to hide the desolation he felt, and it stabbed at her heart. She never wanted to hurt him – had perhaps expected that he would shrug this off in his usual stoic manner. And a disturbing thought began to worm its way into her mind – that she had underestimated the depth of his feelings for her.  
"What's changed?" he asked, not about to let her off the hook, and it was her turn to look confused.  
"This is obviously about the children. The twins. You said you understood. So what's changed?"  
She shook her head desperately. How could she ever put her jumbled feelings into words, so that he could understand? But she had to try; she owed him that much. "Only a man who can totally suppress his conscience could have made that choice," she said at last. He flinched, the words as good as a slap in the face and she hurried on. "You will always be an intelligence officer first – duty before anything else, and I'm not sure I can live with that. Sorry," she added again, stung by the hurt in his eyes.  
He took a step back, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse with emotion. "You have only known me under exceptional circumstances, as I you. Sometimes, Ruth, you have to dare a little. You have to give a man a chance to show you who he really is."  
With that parting shot he turned on his heel and strode away, and she could not stop the tears that came.

0o0

 _10 June 1944  
Oradour-sur-Glane_

The SS troop reached the village in mid-morning. Jurgen Setzer stepped from his car in the main square and looked around. "Gather everyone together," he ordered, and the hard, fanatical young men under his command dispersed to round up the residents. There were 652 of them, and once they were all gathered the _Obersturmbannführer_ addressed them. "You are suspected of hiding members of the Resistance in your midst. Every building will be searched and a check of your papers done. If any evidence is found, the _Reich_ 's justice will be harsh," he asserted coldly, and some of the women began to weep. Setzer ignored them and turned to his second-in-command. "Lock all the men in that barn, and the women and children in the church. Then search the whole village for any evidence that the traitor Herman Peters had been here."

Whilst his men tore through the village, ripping up cushions, kicking over furniture and pocketing valuables, Setzer went into the church and surveyed the gathered women and children. Looking for a weak link, someone who would tell him what he wanted to know. There was an ancient woman, crooked with age and a face weathered by decades spent farming in the elements, and he strode over to her. She watched him come, expressionless, and he could not find any hint of fear in the watery eyes. No matter, he would soon cure her of her illusions. He removed a picture from his pocket, and in it Herman Peters' face stared impassively at the viewer. Setzer held it in front of the old woman. "Have you seen this man? Did you hide him here?"  
She looked at the photo, then turned her head and spat on his shoes.

For a few seconds time stood still, and the world seemed to hold its breath as the German officer stared in disbelief at the gob of spit sitting on the toe of his jackboot. Then he exploded into action, pulling back his arm and slapping her so hard that she toppled from the wooden bench onto the hard floor, and there was a loud crack as her old bones shattered on impact. She howled in anguish as he stood over her, dagger drawn, and no-one dared move. Some of the women and children started wailing, and Setzer's pale eyes swept the room, probing for weakness. He saw a woman hiding a small child behind her legs and stomped over to her, roughly shoving others out of the way.  
"No, no, no," the woman sobbed as he reached behind her and yanked the child out of her grasp. He placed the blade against the tender throat and drew it across until blood began to seep through the broken skin.  
"The next cut will be much deeper unless you cooperate," he said, only raising his voice enough to be heard over the howling of the old woman, once again producing the photograph. "Did you hide this man here?"  
Tears streamed down the mother's face, just as the blood of her only child ran down his throat. "Yes, yes. Please," she begged, reaching for her boy, but the German shoved her back and placed the blade back against the neck. "Tell me everything," he ordered.

0o0

When the SS officer came out of the church, his face was aglow with hatred. For Herman Peters, who had slipped through his fingers again, and for the people who had helped him. "He was here, two days ago," he informed his men. "With his whore, the Punjabi and three others." He looked around the village with contempt, rage broiling inside. "I want Peters to see what will happen to everyone who helps him. Their blood will be on his hands." He turned to look back at the church, from which the women and children's wailing could still be heard, and ordered: "Burn it down. And shoot anyone who survives."

0o0

 _12 June 1944  
Fouras, early evening_

The messenger reached them two days later, as they were waiting in an isolated cottage near _Fouras_ for the boat that would take them back to England. Adam gathered them together and it was obvious from his pale face that something was amiss. He did not mince any words. Looking at Harry as he spoke, he said, "Jurgen Setzer is after you. He is on a personal crusade to wipe you from the face of the earth, and he is leaving death and destruction in his wake."  
Ruth looked at Harry, immediately concerned for him, but he did not meet her eyes. He had withdrawn from her after their discussion two days previously, and she felt the loss of his devotion more sharply than she had expected.  
"What's happened?" Harry asked, fearing the worst. He knew the mentality of these people, knew the inhumanity they could be spurred to when angered or threatened. But even with this knowledge, he was not prepared for the news that Adam now shared.  
"Two days ago Setzer and a company of SS troops burned down _Oradour-sur-Glane_. Along with every inhabitant. Those that survived the fire were gunned down. Six hundred and forty two townspeople are dead. There are only ten survivors."

Harry felt dizzy. The enormity of it was beyond comprehension. His soul seemed to momentarily depart his body, to float into the sky from where he swore he could still discern the glow of the blaze to the east, and still hear the screams of agony from people being burned alive. It morphed into the screams of the family hanged by Hans Prinz, and then into those of terrified children in Mengele's hospital. And finally, finally into those of the millions of exterminated Jews whose ash sifted down on the towns around the concentration camps, day after horrendous day. He barely heard Adam add, "Because they had helped the traitor Herman Peters escape," or the gasp of horror from Ruth. He had always wondered whether there was a limit to the amount of suffering he could witness before he broke, before it became too much to bear. And now he knew. One hand rose and rubbed his forehead, and then he straightened and lifted his chin.  
"I'm going back."

By the time anyone recovered the power of speech, he was determinedly striding to the door.  
"The boat comes tonight," Adam protested, but Harry did not falter.  
"Go without me," he threw over his shoulder as he reached the door.  
Ruth, stood next to it, reached out to grab his arm. "Harry-" she implored, and he paused momentarily to look at her, and it was her turn to flinch away from the raw emotion in his eyes.  
"Go home, Ruth. Before this war rots your soul too; before the only smell in your nostrils is one of death and decay. Go and fulfil your enormous potential."  
She began to shake her head, immeasurably alarmed by the fatalistic weariness behind the words, and he smiled sadly. "You were right – _this_ is what I am. Covered in blood, with the pale horse on my heels. ' _And his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him*_.' This is my battle, and only I can bring an end to it. A man does what is necessary in war, and lives with the consequences afterwards." His hand found her cheek and his thumb traced her skin lovingly. "Go home and be happy," he added, leaning forward and kissing the corner of her mouth lightly.

And before she could say anything, he brushed past her and into the darkness of the night.

 _tbc_

*From the Bible, Revelations 6:8


	18. Chapter 18

**PART XVIII: Blood for blood**

 _Some must be warriors, that others may live in peace._

Mercedes Lackey, Exile's Honor

 _13 June 1944  
Fouras, 00:35_

The hours between Harry's departure and the arrival of the boat were the worst of her life. And in light of her experiences these last few months, that was saying something. First came the denial, then the anger, and finally the debilitating fear and utter despair. For she was convinced – once she stepped onto that boat without him, she would never see him again. Had she made the biggest mistake of her life, pushing him away? Was who he was, what he was capable of, truly so unforgivable? His last words went round and round in her head, her analytical mind looking at it from every angle. Did he actually feel that death and destruction followed him around? That he was at fault for the evil perpetrated by Jurgen Setzer? He was a rational man – surely he knew that no-one but Setzer himself bore the responsibility for that? _Maybe he came to that conclusion because you told him, in essence, that it was so. That he was nothing more than an intelligence officer who had blood on his hands,_ a voice in her head insisted. Had she, in trying so hard to protect herself, to uphold her own particular moral view of the world, destroyed the last bit of humanity he had so determinedly clung onto throughout the last eight years? _Sometimes you have to give a man a chance to show you who he really is_ , he'd said. Could she honestly say that she had done that? That she had given him a fair chance?

By the time they stood on the wooden pier, watching the boat manoeuvre next to it, she had still not found the answer. But increasingly foremost in her mind was his eyes, so expressive when he wasn't being Herman Peters. They could twinkle with mirth, dance with joy, be unbearably sad. Soften with love. _Oh, God_ …  
"Come on," Adam said, and she realised that the others had all got on board already. He held out his hand, but her feet remained rooted to the spot. She looked back towards the shore, hoping against all hope that he would simply materialise out of the mist, solid and eternal as she had come to think of him. But there was nothing. No-one. He was gone, and with her condemnation ringing in his ears.  
"Ruth," Adam called urgently, and she made her decision.  
She turned back to meet his eyes. "I'm not going."

0o0

 _06:14  
Road to Saint-Jean-d'Angely_

When he'd walked into the night all those hours ago, he hadn't actually had a plan. All he'd known was that it had to end, one way or the other. But by the time the sun began to lift its head above the horizon he had the beginnings of one. A flimsy one, admittedly, but it made him feel better all the same. The goal was to either kill Jurgen Setzer, or to die trying. Being captured alive was not an option – he knew too much, could betray too many people under torture. And everyone broke, eventually. The first step towards achieving his goal was to locate the SS officer, and that part shouldn't be too difficult. All he had to do was retrace the route they had taken to _Fouras_ , and their paths were bound to cross eventually as the other man continued to hunt him down. He was not so clear on how to get to Setzer once he located him. He would figure that out as he went along, on the fly, depending on his wits. At least he had a couple of advantages – he had transport, he had his SS uniform, and he had the element of surprise. The first he had obtained by stealing a horse in the early morning hours, and he hoped that he would be able to return it on the way back. It was a sturdy plough horse; not fast or agile, but hardy. It would go all day at a steady pace, and that was what he needed.

As it plodded along, he let his thoughts wander. And of course the first person they went to was _her_. At least she was safely aboard the boat by now, on her way home, to what he hoped would be a long and happy life. Christ, he missed her. The longing was an actual physical pain; a pressure on his chest that made it hard to breathe. What a fool he'd been, to have thought that he could ever be worthy of such a creature. He was not wont to self-reflection, but she made him do that. Forced him to look in the mirror and to recognise what he was. A man steeped in deception and blood, in danger of becoming callous and unfeeling. How grateful he had been, when she had awoken those parts within him that had been dormant for too long – the parts where compassion, love, life lived. And how unfair it had been, to place the burden of his humanity on such a young and innocent woman. He was determined that as of this moment, he would take that responsibility upon himself. She would always be with him, whether his life ended here in France or whether it stretched on for many more years; a constant reminder never to lose sight of what was right, what was proper, what was _human_ , and to balance that against what was needed to protect his country and the people in it. To protect _her_. The one thing he did not doubt, though, was that what he was doing right then was proper. If he had to sell his soul to protect more innocent people from being burnt alive, then so be it. It was a price he was willing to pay a thousand times over. Jurgen Setzer had to be stopped or, failing that, Herman Peters needed to die. Blood for blood – that was the only language the Nazis understood. And as Ruth had pointed out, it was a language he spoke better than most.

0o0

 _15 June 1944  
Saint-Jean-d'Angely_

He found the German two days later. As he approached _Saint-Jean-d'Angely_ , he left the horse at the foot of a steep hill and clambered up to the crest to observe the village nestled in the hollow below it. And almost the first thing he saw as he brought the binoculars into focus, was the black car parked in the square. He pressed deeper into the grass even though there was no way they could see him from down there, and observed the goings-on for a while. Looking for inspiration, for a way to get to Setzer. They seemed to be rounding up the inhabitants and a cold sweat formed all over his body. Followed swiftly by hot, searing rage. _Not again. I will not let him do it again_. Moments later he saw Setzer walk across the square and get into the car, and an idea began to germinate in the back of his mind.

0o0

 _Fouras_

Ruth's decision to stay had not pleased Adam. In the quiet days that followed, she relived the scene over and over again:  
 _He jumped back onto the pier as he addressed her. "Don't be ridiculous! Come now," he ordered, but she stood her ground._  
" _I can't. I said terrible things to him – I can't let those words be the last he ever hears from me," she persisted, concentrating hard on not breaking down. It was all so overwhelming, and perhaps Adam saw that, because he pressed his point with brutal logic._  
" _Ruth. The chances of Harry coming back are miniscule. He is one man taking on the might of the SS, and I hate to say it, but he is unlikely to walk away from that with his life." She flinched, and he added more gently, "I don't want to leave you behind as well. It would be such a waste."  
She was aware of Jo, Zaf and Fiona watching them. "No," she reiterated, lifting her chin stubbornly. "He did it for eight years and survived. I have to believe…" She trailed off and Adam took a step towards her, and she wondered whether he was actually contemplating dragging her along against her will. Then, to her great surprise, Fiona spoke up._  
" _Let her be."_

 _Adam swung to his wife in disbelief, and she smiled at Ruth before addressing her husband. "If it were you out there, alone, I'd want to stay too."  
Adam stared at her, opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again without saying anything. His shoulders sagged as he turned back to the young woman before him, the one he had so confidently dragged into the sharp end of the spying business. He could not have predicted that it would come to this, but still he bore some responsibility for it. For her. "Are you sure?" he asked, very gently, and she nodded immediately. He sighed, a long, weary sigh, before reluctantly saying, "All right. Another boat will come in two weeks' time. Promise you will be on it."_  
" _If Harry's here by then-" she began, but he brusquely interrupted her._  
" _If Harry isn't here by then, he isn't coming," he said shortly. "Promise me you will be on that boat."  
She did not want to admit it, but she knew he was right. If Harry wasn't back within those two weeks, he was either dead or captured, and she would gain nothing by waiting here for him forever. So she agreed reluctantly. "I promise," she said out loud, wondering who doubted those words more – she herself or the man in front of her, watching her with narrowed eyes. At length he nodded and reached out to squeeze her arm. "Okay then. Good luck."  
She stood on the pier, Scarlet sitting next to her, and watched until the boat was swallowed up by the darkness._

For two days now she'd been here alone, and the endless waiting was driving her crazy. There was nothing to break the monotony, nothing to take her mind off her fear for him, nothing to stop her agonising about her own future. She relived the last few months – the exhilaration, the fear, the knowledge that she was doing something important. Making a difference. What Harry had achieved, what she had helped him to achieve, was momentous, she began to realise. Did she really want to step back from that, to once again become a mere passenger in the world events that would shape her life? Increasingly, that began to look like the wrong option to her.

During the day she took Scarlet for short walks, anxious not to be away from the cottage too long in case he returned. She slept badly at night, waking at the slightest sound outside, and during these times she was thankful for the presence of the little dog, whose reaction would tell her whether there was anything to be worried about. Each minute felt like an hour, and more than once she cursed her decision to stay. But then she would remember the look in his eyes as he told her to go home and to be happy, and she would squash these treacherous doubts. She would wait, and when he came (not _if_ he came, never if) she would tell him that she was sorry, and that she wanted to stand by his side in the Service, if he would still have her.

0o0

 _Saint-Jean-de-Angely_

Harry worked his way through the fields around the village, leading the horse in an effort to be as quiet as possible. For once he was grateful for the hedge-madness of the French, as the head-high dense shrub provided ample protection from inquisitive eyes. He was now dressed in his SS uniform, but had replaced the oak leaves on his lapels with the lightning flashes of the more common lower ranks. His cap was pulled low over his brow to have most of his face in shadow. Upon reaching the edge of the village he fastened the horse behind a barn, then scrambled through one of the open squares in the side-wall, designed to let the hay inside aerate and keep it from rotting. He stood momentarily, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, before he moved forward cautiously, gun in hand. There was a scuffling noise to his left and he swung towards it, gun up and finger on the trigger, only to be met by the curious brown eyes of a tethered cow. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves, and edged forward to the wide open door.

The square lay before him, bathed in sunshine, and on the other side sat the big, black car. He could discern Setzer's silhouette in the back seat. SS soldiers moved to and fro across the square, either shepherding frightened looking villagers in front of them towards the church, or moving back empty-handed to the next building to be searched. Harry waited in the shadows until the traffic was particularly heavy, then stepped boldly into the open and began to walk purposefully towards the car. It was foolhardy and reckless, but there was no other way. He was counting on the element of surprise – they did not expect him to be so stupid as to walk right into their midst, therefore they would not see _him_. Only a fellow soldier. Careful not to attract attention, he kept his pace even; he did not hurry, even though every instinct was telling his muscles to speed up, to get there as quickly as possible. He was halfway across when he heard a voice shout.  
"Hey you!"

Bugger. _Was this it?_ Was this how it would all end? He kept walking and turned only his head towards the voice. But his spine prickled, expecting the feeling of hot metal tearing through flesh, followed by the sound of the gunshot a split-second later. It did not come. He saw that the soldier was yelling at a young child trying to duck between two buildings, and he breathed again. His back was clammy with sweat under the uniform; the tension vibrating through every fibre of his being. _I'm not ready to die_. The thought came to him unexpectedly and he blinked. _I am Harry Pearce, and I am in His Majesty's service. I don't want to die, but I will do what is necessary for the greater good._ When he looked up, the car was only ten paces away. And stacked next to it were canisters filled with fuel, from the smell of it. And he began to see a way out.

0o0

The car door opened and Setzer turned towards it in irritation. "I said no interruptions!" he snapped as someone slid into the seat next to him. His eyes widened in surprise as a gun was jammed into his side, and when they finally lifted to the face of the intruder, nearly popped out of their sockets.  
"Not a sound, Jurgen," Harry said conversationally as he quickly leaned over to divest the German officer of his Luger and toss it into the front seat. "And keep your hands on your knees, there's a good fellow."  
Setzer stared at the man next to him, his mouth working frantically, but no sound came out.  
"I hear you've been looking for me," Harry continued, and the German found his voice.  
"You're mad! You just walked right into our midst?!" He could not hide his incredulity at the audacity of it.  
"Well you see, _Obersturmbannführer_ , that's the trouble with totalitarian armies – they don't encourage initiative. No action or thought allowed without orders from above. I gambled that the German soldier's mentality would never allow for the possibility of me coming back. And I was right."  
Setzer continued to stare at him, confusion now mingling with the incredulity. "What are you talking about? You're a German, you're one of us, and you betrayed us!" He was beginning to rally, and Harry dug the barrel deeper into his side.  
"Actually, no. I am an Englishman, and I did not betray you. I deceived you. My name is Harry Pearce, and I have come to exact vengeance for the villagers of _Oradour-sur-Glane_."

It was said with cold conviction and fear gripped Jurgen Setzer. He looked around wildly, but no-one was paying the car and its occupants any notice. "So I ordered them killed, so what," he scoffed, desperately searching for a way to distract the man holding the gun. "You have killed people too. Those children you shot. And you sold Hans Prinz out to the Resistance. You are no different from me."  
The words did not have the desired effect. The Englishman's eyes became hard and unforgiving, and when he spoke the words were flung at the German like pebbles. "I did not sell out Prinz. I do my own dirty work – I don't order others to do it for me. And I may be a murderer, but you are a _mass_ murderer. There's a world of difference."  
Setzer could see the end coming. His death was written large in the face before him, and he said hurriedly, grasping at straws, "The moment you pull that trigger you will sign your own death warrant. The shot will bring every soldier running."  
"I know," Harry said, and the glibness of the words sent a chill down the German's spine. The Englishman began to loosen his tie with one hand as he asked, "Do you have cigarettes? And matches?"  
Setzer automatically reached for his pocket and took out his cigarettes, the fog of fear beginning to overwhelm him. "You want a last smoke before you join me in death?" he taunted, wanting to see at least one spark of fear in the Englishman before it was over.  
But Harry Pearce only smiled. "No. I don't smoke," he confided, and suddenly his tie was around Setzer's neck and pulled taut.

0o0

The German struggled mightily, but Harry pinned him down in the corner and tightened the tie with all the strength he could muster. Setzer grappled at it, but his oxygen-starved muscles could not apply enough power to loosen it. Harry risked momentarily looking away from his victim, to sweep the square and ensure that they were not attracting any attention, and it cost him dearly. A burning sensation knifed through his thigh and he had to bite back a scream of agony, and when he looked down Setzer's dagger was buried to the hilt in his leg. He'd forgotten about the sodding dagger. Anger at himself fuelled him through the searing pain, and he tightened the tie even more, until the German finally went limp. He kept the pressure on until he was sure the man had stopped breathing, before he slowly relaxed. His breathing was harsh in his own ears, and he gritted his teeth and took hold of the dagger, pulling it out in one swift move. Blood rushed out, so he used his tie to bind the wound as best he could. _Almost there_. He wiped his bloody hands on the corpse next to him, then grabbed the cigarettes and lit one without pulling the smoke into his lungs. One final sweep of the square to ensure that no-one was looking at the car, before he threw open the door and limped out. As he passed the canisters, he dropped the cigarette into one of them and moved away as fast as he could without arousing suspicion. It took a few seconds before he heard the first _whump_ , as the fuel caught fire and exploded behind him, and only then did he dare to break into a hobbling run. By the time he reached the horse and heaved himself onto its back, his trouser leg was soaked in blood, and he knew he was in trouble.

0o0

 _17 June 1944  
Fouras, 02:14_

Ruth jerked awake. She lay unmoving, trying to ascertain what it was that had woken her, but all was quiet. The cottage was dark, but she discerned movement at the door and squinted towards it. Scarlet. The dog was sniffing at the crack at the bottom, and then she whined softly. Ruth sat up and scrabbled for the matches, and as she lit a candle she heard a noise outside, akin to heavy breathing. It did not sound human. The dog began to scratch at the door, her whining increasing in volume, and Ruth's heart jumped into her throat. _Harry_. She hastened forward and pulled it open, and the night was pitch-black. Lifting the candle higher, she peered desperately into the darkness. As she turned to her left, she nearly dropped the candle as its light illuminated a dark beast. It took a second before she recognised it as a horse. It was covered in white streaks of sweat and it stood swaying, its head hung low as it breathed heavily. There was a glistening stain on its one flank – and it was only when she moved closer that she noticed the man lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. "Harry!"

She rushed forward and knelt beside his head, and rolled him over onto his back. His face was covered in sweat and she pressed her hand to his forehead, and he was burning up. "Harry," she said again, caressing his face and his eyes briefly flickered open.  
"Ruth," he mumbled, "…almost made it…" And then he passed out.  
She grabbed him under the armpits, and with a strength borne from desperation she dragged him inside and heaved him onto the bed. "Stupid man," she exclaimed, overcome with anguish at the state of him, "stupid, _stupid_ man!" Then she ran for the village doctor.

0o0

They cut away the trouser leg, the material stiff with dried blood, and as soon as the wound was exposed a terrible stench rose up. Ruth nearly gagged, and the doctor looked grave. New blood began to mingle with the puss oozing out of it and he shook his head in amazement. "I can't believe he's still alive, with the amount of blood he's lost."  
"What's that smell?" Ruth asked, hand over mouth, and the doctor glanced at her.  
"Sepsis. The wound became infected and the poison has spread to his blood. The body is warring with itself, hence the fever," he explained as he began to clean out the wound.  
Harry stirred uneasily, moaning in pain, and Ruth put a calming hand on his forehead. "Will he be all right?"  
"I don't know," the doctor responded frankly. "All we can do is to keep cleaning the wound. The rest is up to him."  
She nodded miserably and leaned forward to press a kiss against his temple. "You hear that, Harry? It's up to you," she said desperately, beseechingly.

0o0

He dreamt. Delirious fragments of fantasy mingled in with reality as his body fought its internal war. Ruth was there, but that could not be – she had left him. So he must be dead. He strained to lift his head and told her, "I killed him. The monster is dead. I slayed the dragon. You're safe." She shushed him with tears in her eyes, and he thought that was strange. There should be no tears in heaven. Then again, he wouldn't be in heaven, not after all that he'd done. Maybe they let him visit the living this once so he could tell her how the dragon got consumed by his own flames – how the big black car exploded in a ball of fire, cutting off the monster's head once and for all.

Then there was nothingness, for he knew not how long, before he dreamt again. They were in bed together, and he entered her, and he had never felt more complete. More alive. More human. She looked at him in adoration and murmured his name as he moved inside her, and he though his heart would burst from happiness. Perhaps hell was not so bad if they let him have these dreams for eternity.

The blackness came again, and when it lifted he was walking through a concentration camp, and he knew it was Auschwitz because Doctor Mengele was next to him. There was a queue of wretched human beings before a low, squat building and he hoped they were about to get food, because they were mere skeletons - skin stretched over bone. Something feathered against his cheek and he reached up to brush it away, and when he looked up the sky was awash with fluttering grey specks. "What is it?" he asked, and Mengele smiled.  
"It is the Jews."  
He woke, screaming, and this time he knew that he was in hell.

0o0

For three days she sat with him, watching helplessly as he fought for survival. He talked, sometimes, about a dragon, and fire, and ash, and she did not understand but she answered him all the same, telling him she was there with him, supporting him, that he was not alone. Other times he woke up screaming, and she realised that she had been wrong, that she had done him a disservice; that he was very much an intelligence officer _and_ a man. That humanity and compassion was still alive in him, but that these qualities sometimes had to be suppressed, lest he be crushed by all he'd seen and done. And she told him that, too, and that she was sorry. So very, very sorry.

0o0

 _21 June 1944  
11:08_

"… thirsty…"  
Ruth jerked upright from where she had been dozing in the chair next to the bed, his hand held on her lap. It took a few tries before her tired eyes could focus on his face, but once she did she almost started crying in relief. His head was turned towards her, his eyes open and clear, and he seemed lucid.  
"Harry-" she managed, lifting his hand and kissing it, and he smiled weakly. When she continued to just stare at him, he croaked, more insistently, "…Water."  
"Oh! Yes," and she jumped up to hold the glass to his lips. His eyes never left her face as he drank, but as soon as she laid his head back down on the pillow they closed again in exhaustion.  
"Thank you," he whispered, "pity it's not whisky."  
She laughed, knowing then that he would be all right, and offered, "Next time."  
"Good," he mumbled, and added as sleep began to claim him, "You'll stay?"  
"I will," she promised, running a hand through his hair. "I will."

0o0

 _29 June 1944  
Dover, mid-morning_

Harry stood at the railing as the boat made its way alongside the pier, his eyes fixed on the land. He had been there since sunrise, eagerly watching for his first glimpse of England. It was hell on his leg, this standing for hours on end, but he ignored the pain. Nothing would distract him from his vigil. And when he had caught the first sliver of green on the horizon, he'd inhaled sharply, and had not taken his eyes from it for the rest of the journey up the coast. The sun was shining and he watched the cliffs glide by, the green hills beyond it sparkling fresh and new in its bright rays. _This_ was what he had fought for, sacrificed for, killed for. His beloved England. Once the boat was fastened he turned to find Ruth standing behind him, Scarlet at her feet, both watching him fondly.  
"Ready?" Ruth asked with a small smile, and he knew that she understood how momentous this day was for him.  
"Ready," he said, and took their bags from her and followed her to the gangplank and onto the pier.

Once they reached the end of it she stopped and waited for him. When he looked at her curiously she nodded towards the boundary between the pier and the land, and prompted, "Go ahead."  
So he set down the bags and limped off the pier for a few steps, before he stopped and looked down at his feet, firmly planted on English soil again after eight long years.

He was _home_.

And when Ruth moved to his side and slipped her hand into his, he threw back his head and laughed in unbridled joy.

Yes, in more ways than one, he was home.

 _Fin_


End file.
